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I University OF Michigan. 


I lH:P^^u.2u^^tMA.vJ...Jb:i^M93jT:. 


j (^A ^ i S gy. 



H <hC'. 


E Pluribus Unum. 

** These publications of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and 

the chaff thrown away." 

'* Made up of every creature's best.*' 

"Various, that the mind 
Of desultory man, studious of change. 
And pleased with novelty, may be indulged." 












Edinburgh Review. 

The French in North America, 
Memoirs of Count Pasolini, . 

Quarterly Review. 
The Electress Sophia, • 

London Quarterly Review. 

The First Epoch in the Italian Renais 

A Visit to the Temple of Heaven at 
Peking.. .... 

The Hagnenot Reformation in the Nor 
man Isles, • . . • 

Contemporary Review. 

The Muse of History, . . 
Victor Hugo, ..... 
What can History teach us ? . • 

Fortnightly Review. 

Wvdif and the Bible, 

Mr. J. R Lowell 

Local Government and Ireland, . 
The Paris Newspaper Press, . 
Midsummer in the Soudan, . . 
Lord Peterborough, . • 

Nineteenth Century. 

James Russell Lowell, . . . 
Letters from a Private Soldier in Egypt 
Genius and Insanity, 
The Irish Parliament of 1782, 
Modern Catholics and Scientific Free- 
dom, ..... 
The Work of Victor Hugo, • 
A Swain of Arcady, . . . 

Parliamentary Manners, . . . 
" The Metaphysical Society," . . 
A Jesuit Reformer and Poet, . . 

Scottish Review. 

Stuart Pretenders, .... 
Winifred, Countess of Nithsdaill, . 

National Review. 

The Liberal Movement in English Lit- 
erature, • ... 42, 789 













A Vigil in Stonehenge, . . • .124 
Sir William Napier, .... 259 
An Appeal to Men of Wealth, . . 574 

Blackwood's Magazine. 

The Torpedo Scare, . . . • 5^ 
Fortune's Wheel, 80, 138, 337, 404, 653, 722 
An Unknown Colony, .... 485 
Footprints, 534 

Gentleman's Magazine. 

Erckmann-Chatrian, .... 105 
Life in Patagonia, . . . • • 427 

Cornhill Magazine. 

A Chinese Ascot, 506 

Unparliamentary Boroughs, . . . 757 

Macmillan's Magazine. 

Mrs. Dymond, . . . 14, 269, 602, 799 
From Montevideo to Paraguay, . 88, 290 

Unexplained, no 

A Walking Tour in the Landes, . 369, 624 
Marlborough, 476 

Temple Bar. 

Prince Bismarck as a Diplomatist, . . 160 
The Russian Armament, . • '175 
Eugene Bodichon : a Republican of 1830, 440 
Samuel Foote, The English Aris- 
tophanes, 494 

The Princesse de Lamballe, . . .612 

A Margate Grotto, 637 

Constance Alfieri, Marquise D'Azeglio, 681 
Modern Prettiness v. Art, . . . 702 

Good Words. 

From ** Reminiscences of my Life," by 

Mary Howitt, . . 1S3, 564, 808 

Leisure Hour. 

"The Father of German Music." — Jo- 

hann Sebastian Bach, ... 60 
Curiosities of Music, . . . .120 
An Afghan Jailer, ..... 309 
The Krakatoa Eruption,. 570, 693, 753, 814 





A Passenger from Shanghai, . 
The Great Keinplatz Experiment, . 
Morning Calls in the West Country, • 

TiNSLEY*s Magazine. 

Johnnie's Diary — from London to New 

Longman's Magazine. 
The Matchmaker's Euclid, . • • 

Engush Illustrated Magazine. 
Schwartz : a History, .... 


Lord Beaconsfield's Youth, • • • 
The March of the White Man, 

The Biblical Brotherhood, • • • 

The Musical Pitch Question, • • • 

Leo XIII. as Ultramontane, • • • 

The Poet of Elegy, 

An Old London Gardener, . 

Anarchism in Switzerland, 

Lord Houghton, . • • • . 820 

A Scotch Porson, • • • • • 822 


The Franco-Chinese Treaty and British 

Trade, 246 

Saturday Review. 

The Queen's Drawing-room, ... 57 
Eighth Centenary of Gregory VII., 
The Lyons Silk Trade, . 
The C'aitifE Catfish, 







763, 818 

. 190 

. 824 

St. James's Gazette. 

The Civilization of Savages, 
An Actress's Love- Letters, 
A Maori " Last Day," . 
On a House- Boat, . • 

. 244 
. 250 

. 446 
. 448 
. 767 

Chambers' Journal. 

A House Divided aeainst Itself, m 100, 158, 

«4it ^7* 35^ 423. 473. 5«>» 620. 677, 

740, 785 
A Brother of the Misericordia, . .167 
Bee and Ant Phenomena, • • . 254 
Recent Pyramid- Work, .... 700 

All The Year Round. 

Curiosities of Taxation, . . . .127 
Music and Musicians, . • • . 186 

Nature in London, 252 

A Paris Suburb, ..... 303 
The Crown Diamonds of France, • • 552 


The Measure of Fidget, . . . * 314 
The International Sanitary Conference 

in Rome, 378 

Afloat with a Florida Sponger, . . 249 

English History in Danish Archives, . 765 

Estates* Gazette. 

Ground Rents and the Abolition of Lease- 

^oXdM, 575 


Ant and Bee Phenomena, • • • 254 

A^han Jailer, An • • • . • 309 

Arcady, A Swain of .... 434 

Actress's, An, Love- Letters, . . . 446 

Arnold, Matthew, as the Poet of Elegy, . 503 

Ascot, A Chinese . . . . ' • coo 

Alfieri, Constance, Marquise D'Azeglio, 681 
Anarchism in Switzerland, • . 763, 818 

Bach, Johann Sebastian . • • • 60 
Beaconsfield's, Lord, Youth, • • .62 
Bismarck as a Diplomatist, . • .160 

Brother, A, of the Misericordia, • • 167 

Bee and Ant Phenomena, ... 254 

Biblical Brotherhood, The . . . 314 
Bodichon, Eugene : a Republican of 

1830, 440 

Chinese- French Treaty, The, and British 

Trade, 246 

Civilization, The, of Savages, . . 250 
Catholics, Modern, and Scientific Free- 
dom, . . . . . .344 

Chinese Ascot, A 506 

Catfish, The Caitiff .... 824 

Dymond, Mrs. . • 14, 269^ 602, 799 

Diamonds, The Crown, of France, . . 552 

Danish Archives, English History in • 765 

Egypt. Letters from a Private Soldier 

in 32 

Erckmann-Chatrian, .... 105 

Elegy, The Poet of 503 

English History in Danish Archives, • 765 

Fortune's Wheel, 80, 138, 337, 404, 6j3, 722 
Franco-Chinese Treaty, The, and British 

Trade, ...... 246 

Florida Sponger, A, Afloat with . • 249 

Fidget, The Measure of . • • . 314 

Foote, Samuel 494 

Footprints, 534 

French, The, in North America, • • 579 

Genius and Insanity, .... 67 

Gregory VIL, Eighth Centenary of . 190 

Great Keinplatz Experiment, The . . 458 
Ground Rents and the Abolition of 

Leaseholds, . . . • * 575 

Gardener, An Old London • • • 096 

History, The Muse of . . . . 26 

House, A, Divided against Itself, ^9, 100, 158, 

241, 287, 356, 423, 473, 5&, 620, 677, 

740, 785 
Howitt*s, Mary, Reminiscences, 1S3, 564, 808 

Hugo, Victor 323 

" Work of .... 414 
Huguenot Reformation, The, in the Nor- 
man Isles, 515 

History, What can it Teach us ? . . 707 

House- Boat, On a 767 

Houghton, Lord • • • . • 820 

Insanity and Genius, .... 67 
Irish Parliament, The, of 1782, . . 147 
Italian Renaissance, the. The First Epoch in 195 
Ireland, and Local Government, . . 360 

Johnnie's Diary — from London to New 

York, 525 

Jesuit Reformer and Poet, A • • •771 

Krakatoa Eruption, The 570, 693, 753, 814 

Lowell, James Russell ... 3* 280 
Letters from a Private Soldier in Egypt, 32 
Liberal Movement, The, in English Lit- 
erature, • • • .42, 789 
London, Nature in . 
Landes, the, A Walking Tour in 
Leo XHI. as Ultramontane, . 
Lyons Silk Trade, The • . 
Lamballe, de, The Princesse • 

Montevideo, From, to Paraguay, 
Music, Curiosities of • • 
Music and Musicians, • • 
Marmalade-Making, . . 
Matchmaker's Euclid, The 
Musical Pitch Question, The . 
Maori, A, '* Last Day," • 
Marlborough, .... 
Morning Calls in the West Country, 
Margate Grotto, A • 
" Metaphysical Society, The 


. 252 
369, 624 

. 380 

• 612 

88, 290 

. 120 

. 186 

. 244 

• 255 

• 317 
. 448 
. 476 

. 547 

. 037 

. 729 

Napier, Sir William .... 259 
Nithsdaill, Winifred, Countess of . •451 

Newfoundland, 485 

Norman Isles, the. The Huguenot Refor- 
mation in • • • . . 515 




Paraguay, to, From Montevideo, . 88, 290 
Peking, A Visit to the Temple of Heaven 

at 233 

Paris Suburb, A 303 

Patagonia, Life in . • . . . 427 

Parliamentary Manners, .... 466 

Paris Newspaper Press, The . . , 643 

Pasolini, Count, Memoirs of . . . 665 

Pyramid- Work, Recent .... 700 

Prettincss, Modern, v. Art, . . . 702 

Peterborough, Lord .... 744 

Porson, A Scotch • . • • . 822 

Queen's Drawing-room, The . 


Russian Armament, The . • • ^75 
Reformation, The Huguenot, in the Nor- 
man Isles, 515 

Stonehenge, A Vigil in 


Schwartz : a History, • . 
Stuart Pretenders, . . . 
Shanghai, A Passenger from . 
Sponger, A Florida, Afloat with 
Savages, The Civilization of . 




Sanitary Conference, The International, 

in Rome, 378 

Sophia, The Electress .... 387 
Soudan, Midsummer in the . . . 687 
Switzerland, Anarchism in • • 763, 818 
Spee, Frederick 771 

Torpedo Scare, The 
Taxation, Curiosities of . • 

Unparuamentary Boroughs, 

Wyclif and the Bible, . 
White Man, the. The March of 
Wealth, Men of, An Appeal to 

• 127 

• 757 

• 3" 
. 574 

AT the Station on an Autumn Morning, 


Kalanos to Alexander, 

Bed in Summer, 
Best Wine Last, 

Cowper, ... 
Canterbury Cathedral, 

Ego and Non-Ego, . 
Ethics of the Dust, . 

Frowendienst, . • 

Gower, in June, • 
Grant, General . 

Horace, Book H., Ode 16, 
Hot Day in July, A Very 
Horace : to Maecenas, • 

lona, 1885, 

In a Hammock, . . 

Invitation, An . . 

If I were You, • • 

Jersey Summer Day, A . 














Love's Sleep, 

Mary of Portugal, Death of . 
My Old Home, .... 

Newman, Cardinal, and General Gordon 

Old Home, The 
"O Faces Pitiful and Pale," 
Our Cress V, . 
Obermannic Epilogue, An 

Rowland, A, for an Oliver, 

Summer Evenings • • 
Spring's the i line, . • 
Soutsos, From the Romaic of 
Sonnet, .... 
Scratches, • . 

Then and Now, 
To a Thrush, . 

Waif A . 

" When Omar Diedi" 








194. 700 



Brother, A, of the Misericordia, . . 

Dymond, Mrs. . • 14, 269, 602, 799 

Fortune's Wheel, 80, 138, 337, 404. 653. 722 

Great Keinplatz Experiment, The . • 458 

House, A, Divided against Itself, 19, 100, 15S, 
24i» 287, 356, 423, 473, S&, 620. 677, 

740, 785 


Johnnie's Diary— from London to New 

York, 525 

Passenger, A, from Shanghai, • .228 
Schwartz : a History, • • • . 206 
Unexplained, . . • • • • no 


Fifth Series 
Volume LL 

; } No. 2141. -July 4, 1885. }^voi.^^^' 



I. James Russell Lowell, .... Nineteenth Century^ 

II. Mrs. Dymond. Part VI., .... Macmillan^s Magazine^ . 

III. The Muse of History, .... Contemporary Review^ . 

IV. Letters from a Private Soldier in 

Egypt, Nineteenth Century^ 

V. A House Divided against Itself. By 

Mrs. Oliphant Part XXH Chambers' Journal, 

VI. The Liberal Movement in English Lit- 
erature. Part IV., National Review, . 

VH. The Torpedo Scare, Blackwood's Magazine, , 

VIH. The Queen's Drawing-room, . . . Saturday Review, . 

IX. "The Father of German Music." — Jo- 

HANN Sebastian Bach, .... Leisure Hour, . 

X. Lord Beaconsfield's Youth, . . . Spectator, 








At the Station on an Autumn i Then and Now, 2 

Morning, 2 1 Cowper, 2 

Miscellany, 64 





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Lamp after lamp how the lights go trooping, 
Stretching behind the trees, dreamily yonder; 
Through the branches adrip with the shower 
The light slants and gleams on the puddles. 

Plaintively, shrilly, piercingly whistles 

The engine hard by. Cold and grey are the 

Up above, and the Autumn morning 
Ghostlike glimmers around me. 

Whither and whence move the people hurrying 
Into dark carriages, muffled and silent ? 
To what sorrows unknown are they rushing — 
Long tortures of hopes that will tarry ? 

You too, oh fair one, are dreamily holding 
Your ticket now for the guard's sharp clip- 
Ah, so dips Time, ever relentless, 
Joys, memories, and years that are golden. 

Far'Stretching the dark train stands, and the 

Black-capped, up and down keep moving like 

shadows ; 
In his hand bears each one a lantern, 
And each one a hammer of irom. 

And the iron they strike sends a hollow re- 

Mournful ; and out of the heart an echo 
Mournfully answers, a sudden 
Dull pang of regret that is weary. 

Now the hurrying slam of the doors grows in- 
And loud, and scornful the rapidly sounding 
Summons to start and delay not ; 
The rain dashes hard on the windows. 

Puffing, shuddering, panting, the monster 
Now feels life stir in its limbs of iron, 
And opens its eyes, and startles 
The dim far space with a challenge. 

Then on moves the evil thing, horribly trailing 
Its length, and, beating its wings, bears from 

My love, and her face and her farewell 
Are lost to me now in the darkness. 

O sweet face flushed with the palest of roses I 
O start ike eyes so peaceful ! O forehead 
Pure-shining and gentle, with tresses 
Curling so softly around it. 

The air with a passionate life was a-tremble. 
And summer was glad when she smiled to greet 

me ; 
The young sun of June bent earthward 
And kissed her soft cheek in his rapture. 

Full 'neath the nut-brown hair he kissed her ; 
But though his beauty and splendor might 

Her gentle presence — far brighter 
The glory my thoughts set around her. 

There in the rain, in the dreary darkness 

I turn me, and with them would mingle my 

being ; 
I stagger ; then touch myself grimly — 
Not yet as a ghost am I moving. 

what a falling of leaves, never-ending, 
Icy, and silent, and sad, on my spirit 1 

1 feel that forever around me 

The earth has grown all one November. ' 

Better to be without sense of existence — 
Better this gloom, and this shadow of dark- 
Would I, ah, would I were sleeping 
A dull sleep that lasteth forever. 


Macmillan's Magazine. 


The sky was blue. 

Our hearts were true. 
Bright shone the sun that summer morn ; 

The birds sang sweet, 

And at our feet 
Lay waving fields of yellow corn. 

With love and faith 

As strong as death. 
Without a tear we turned away ; 

*Tis turuf we weep, 

At one fell sweep 
Our sun is hid, our sky is gray. 

For pride is strong 

When hearts are young ; 
And bitter words that once are spoken. 

Return again 

With maddening pain ; 
And faith and vows and hearts are broken. 
Chambers' Journal. MaRY J. MURCHIE. 


As o*er the hushed hills and the sleeping plain. 
After long hours, the weary watcher sees 
The night grow pale, and hears amid the trees 

The wind that swooned at even wake again ; 

While one by one the starry clusters wane. 
Till, lonely left, more silvery clear than these, 
Mild Phosphor rules the dawn's soft mys- 

Ushering in Hvperion*s golden reign ; 

So, taking simple nature for its theme. 
Thy gentle song, inspired with purpose high. 

Shot through the latter dusk a welcome gleam. 
Gracing afresh the realms of Poesy, 

And sparkling purely with its playful beam 
In herald-radiance told of Wordsworth nigh. 
Specutor. Herbert B. Garrod. 


From The Nineteeoth Centurv. 

Mirrored id the pages of James Rus- 
sell Lowell, as the forests and headlands 
are mirrored in some far-stretching lake, 
are the deepest and strongest thoughts 
and emotions of the Transatlantic mind. 
Yet his name is, in the minds of many 
Englishmen, associated chiefly with one 
form of literary effort, and that not the 
highest, though in its way unsurpassed. 
We propose, therefore, to draw attention 
not only to "The Biglow Papers," which 
have made for their author a name sui 
generisy but to those writings of graver 
import by which he would probably prefer 
to be ultimately judged. 

Mr. Lowell comes of an old Massa- 
chusetts family. His grandfather, the 
Hon. John Lowell, was one of the greatest 
lawyers of that State, and was described 
by Mr. Everett as "among those who en- 
joyed the public trust and confidence in 
the times which tried men^s souls." He 
was a member of the convention which 
framed the Constitution of Massachusetts, 
and introduced the clause in the Bill of 
Rights which effected the abolition of 
slavery in that State. Washington ap- 
pointed him the first judge of the United 
States District Court, and at his death he 
was chief justice of the Circuit Court of 
the United States. The father of the 
poet, the Rev. Charles Lowell, was for 
some fifty years pastor of the West Church 
of Boston. He graduated at Harvard 
College, matriculated at the University of 
Edinburgh, and studied divinity under 
Hunter, and moral philosophy under Du- 
gald Stewart. He was the author of 
several works, chiefly of a theological 
character. The maternal ancestors of 
Mr. Lowell were of Danish origin, but 
emigrated to America from Kirkwall, in 
the Orkneys. Mr. Lowell was born at 
Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the stately 
old mansion of Elmwood, which once had 
the honor of sheltering Washington, and 
was afterwards the property of Elbridge 
Gerry, one of the signers of the Declara- 
tion of Independence, and vice-president 
of the United States. There are abundant 
allusions in his works proving his deep 
attachment to the picturesque home of 

his childhood. We can linger but to 
quote one such passage, from " A Day in 
June : " — 

One tall elm, this hundredth year 
Doge of our leafy Venice here. 
Who with an annual ring doth wed 
The blue Adriatic overhead, 
Shadows, with his palatial mass, 
The deep canals of flowing grass, 
Where glow the dandelions sparse 
For shadows of Italian stars. 

Mr. Lowell graduated at Harvard in 
1838, being then in his twentieth year. 
First drawn towards the law, he was ad- 
mitted to the bar, after the usual prelimi* 
nary studies, but the love of letters had 
already become a formidable passion with 
him, and he surrendered the profession of 
the law for the more attractive, if less re- 
munerative, one of literature. In January, 
1843, he began, in conjunction with Mr. 
Robert Carter, a literary and critical mag- 
azine, called the Pioneer, Three num- 
bers appeared, and then the periodical 
was committed to the waters of Lethe, 
not from any inherent fault of its own, for 
it was admirably conducted,- and greatly 
impressed the reading public of America 
by the able and independent tone of its 
criticisms. But from a business point of 
view it proved unremunerative. In the 
year following this venture, Mr. Lowell 
was married to Miss Maria White, of 
Watertown, Massachusetts. Besides be- 
ing the author of many excellent transla- 
tions from the German, Mrs. Lowell was 
a writer of poems of original merit. It 
was her death in 1853 which led to the 
publication of Mr. Longfellow's beautiful 
poem "The Two Angels." The poet pic- 
tured two angels, those of Life and Death, 
the former of whom knocked at his own 
door, and the latter at that of his bereaved 
friend. In 1854 Mr. Lowell delivered a 
course of lectures before the Lowell Insti- 
tute on English poetry, beginning with 
Chaucer and the old ballad-writers, then 
dealing with Pope and others, and Anally 
coming down to Wordsworth and Tenny- 
son. He was appointed in 1855 to the 
much-coveted post of professor of belles 
letters in Harvard College, which had 
been vacated by Mr. Longfellow. This 
appointment carries with it the privilege 


of a year's preliminary study aod travel \n 
Europe before eoteriug upon its duties. 
Like his predecessor, Mr. Lowell made 
the most of this twelvemonth's sojourn in 
Europe. In 1856 he returned to the 
United States, and in the year following 
married Miss Frances Dunlop, niece of 
ex-Governor Dunlop, of Portland, Maine, 
whose loss also he has been just called 
upon to mourn. In 1863 he undertook, 
in conjunction with Mr. Charles Eliot 
Norton, the editorial supervision of the 
North American Review, Long after he 
ceased to be connected with the direction 
of this able periodical, Mr. Lowell was a 
frequent and easily recog:nized contributor 
to its pages. Of our author, io the per- 
sonal sense, nothing more remains to be 
said than that, after serving his country 
in a subordinate capacity, he was ap- 
pointed to the important post of. minister 
to Great Britain,* — an appointment he 
now relinquishes to the sincere regret of 
his many English friends. With regard 
to the United States, it is now no uncom- 
mon, though a very creditable, thing for 
literary men to be advanced to high dip- 
lomatic appointments. 

At the opening of his career a compari- 
son was instituted between Mr. Lowell 
and his fellow-poet Whittier. But while 
both can touch a high note in the martial 
strains of freedom, and both possess de- 
scriptive powers of no common order, 
here, it seems to us, the comparison ends. 
Lowell is an energetic genius, Whittier a 
contemplative : not that the former is de- 
void of the other's noble contemplative 
moods, but he is at his best as the poet of 
action. Even when dealing with pacific 
subjects there is an air of pugnacity about 
him. He is in the realm of poetry what 
Mr. Bright is in that of politics. For men 
of peace, both are the hardest hitters of 
all the public men of our time. Given 
the same conditions, and Mr. Lowell 
might have been the Bright of the Amer- 
ican Senate. His knowledge of human 
nature is very profound, his English is 
most rich and flexible, while the principles 
he expounds are stern and unbending. 
Politically he has two great leading con- 
victions, justice and freedom. He loves 
his country deeply, but even the threat- 

ened infringement of those principles has 
filled his soul with poignant anguish and 
regret. When his outraged spirit found 
relief in scathing sarcasm, as at the time 
of the Mexican war, and subsequently, 
those who observed him closely might see 
the tear welling up behind the fire-flash in 
his eye. 

In his earliest volume, " A Year's Life," 
published in 1841, poems all written by 
the time he had reached his majority, 
there was more than enough to justify the 
prescience of those who heralded the ap- 
pearance of a new poet. In the first 
place, there was evidence that the writer 
was not merely lisping numbers in an 
imitative sense, or because it was a pleas- 
ant thing to do. He had something to 
say, and he said it spontaneously. Said 
the critics, " Our poet's conceptions are 
superior to his power of execution," but 
even here the charge was somewhat un* 
fairly pressed. It is difficult for every 
young Phcebus in pOesy to manage his 
steeds. But in Lowell's case it was for- 
tunate that the complaint was on the right 
side. It was not his imagination that was 
at fault, but his expression ; consequently 
there was well-grounded hope of his over- 
setting the difficulty. His youngest work 
was full of noble qualities. In'Mren^" 
and the stanzas entitled "Threnodia " 
there were passages which none but a 
true poet could have written. Take these 
lines from the latter poem : — 

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way. 
And wandered hither, so his stay 
With us was short, and 'twas most meet 
That he should be no delver in earth's clod, 
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet 
To stand before his God. 

In the love poems of this first volume 
there is a distinct impress of Wordsworth ; 
though not in the ordinary way of verbal 
plagiarism. The lofty sentiments which 
both poets expressed concerning woman 
were natural to both, though Lowell had 
evidently revelled in the descriptions of 
his elder brother. Do not these stanzas, 
where the poet is describing his love, 
carry some reminiscences of the English 
laureate ? — 

Blessing she is : God made her so, 
And deeds of week-day holiness 


Fall Eiom h«r noiMlcsa as the si 
Nor faalh s'e ever chanced to k 
That aught were easier than to 

Her life doth rigtitl* tiarmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not li 
Ne'er made less beauliful (he blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

The spring-time of her childish years 
Halh never lost its fresh perfume. 
Though knowing well (hat life hath too 
For many blights and many tears. 


. the 

e of a detic: 


I murderer is 
that he becoi 
.eods his days 
I subject requii 
Imost faslidio 

, this volume, 

UpOD ihi 

theus, a 
lype '■ ti 
men wh 

graceful lyrical faculty which these early 

poems presented, the writer gave satisfac- 

tory hostages for the deep spirit of h«. ^^/jjlig;; fi"er»hile the" '■ I'l 

mamty by which he was imbued. For , j^^.|^_^^_, ^^^ „_ ^^,^_,^_^ ,^^_ 

proof of this fine cosmopolitan spirit turn , □ 

to his poem "The Fatherland," to the I ^^^j 

splendid tribute to Hampden and Crom- I 

well in "A Glance behind Ihe Curtain," j """V 

aod to the " Stanzas on Freedom." With I '" ' 

tinfaltering voice, and while still approach- ^ 

ing manhood, Lowell nobly 


appalled by the incident 

s filled with remorse, and 

repentance. So difficult a 

I careful handling, but ibe 

would find no reason to 

in this respect. In a whollydif- 

n are the two classical poems in 

ne, '■ Prometheus " and "Rha;- 

r. Lowell moralizes admirably 

world-touching story of Prome- 

and sees in his great heart but a 

'of what all lofty spirits endure," 

vho would fain win back their fel- 

" to strength and peace through 

All the memorial verses in this 

e, to Channing, Lloyd Garrison, 

ilh, Lamarline, and others, are ex- 

icident in a 

id Car " — relating how one spoke 

IS, and the poet deduced his gen- 

isons for mankind therefrom — is 

:herished possession with English 

There was enough in the: 
show that it is of such blood that real pa- 
triots are made. 

Poetically, a higher vein was struck in 
ibe ne»t volume, "Legend of Brittany," 
"Miscellaneous _ Poems and Sonnets," 
published in 1844. Though there might 
have been still some liiile ground for the 
charge of redundancy, it was evident that 
the poet was rising to his capacity. Ma- 
turity of thought, a pruned imagination, 
and a greater swing and sweep of the 
verse, were the characteristics of this new ''' 
volume. The leading poem, which relates 1^ 
faow a country maiden is betrayed and ° 
murdered by a koightiy lover, is treated Ii 
with much beauty of language, and yet 
scrupulous delicacy. The portrait of the 
heroine Margaret is most lovingly and ex- 
quisitely drawn, and long remains upon 
the mind of the reader as an image of 
maidenly beauty. Her lover conceals the 
corpse behind the churtfh altar, but the 
guilty presence is made known on a festi- 
val day by a voice demanding baptism for 
Ibe unborn batie m its embrace. The 

Mr. Lowell next essayed the treatment 
of an Arthurian legend in " The Vision of 
Sir Launfal." It is founded on the search 
for the Holy Grail. The knight is led in 
a dream to the true discovery, viz., that 
charily to the miserable, the outcast, and 
Ihe suffering is the holy cup. Whether 
intentionally or inadvertently, in these 
opening verses the writer closely repro- 
duces an idea from Wordsworth's " Ode 
on the Intimalions of Immortality: " — 
Not only aroand oar infancy 
Doth heaven with all its splendors lie ; 
Daily, with aoula that cringe and plot. 
We Sinais climb and know il not. 
But how admirably Mr. Lowell thus en- 
forces the lesson of the Holy Grail, in 
language addressed to Sir Launfal by one 
whom he had assisted as a leper, but who 
now stands before him glorified ! — 

ly climes without avail. 
Thou Oast spent ihy life for the Holy Grail ; 

It fill at the si 

idy broken for thee. 
This waler His blood Ihat died on the tree; 
The Holy Supper is kept, indeed. 
In whatso we share with another's need ; 
Not what we give, bul what we share — 
For the gift without the giver is bare ; 
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three.— 
Hiouelf, his hungering neighbor, and me. 


By way of perfect contrast to this pas- 
sage in reorard to style, and also as ilius- 
tratincr Mr. LowelTs close observance of 
nature, we will now quote a portion of the 
prelude to the first part of the same poem. 
The poet is revelling in the advent of 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays ; 
Whether we look or whether we listen, 
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; 
Every clod feels a stir of might. 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowslip startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, 
And there's never a leaf or blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; 
The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. 
And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. 
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and 

sings ; 
He sings to the wide world, and she to her 

nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the 

There can, we think, be no question in 
the minds of most that the man who wrote 
these lines is a true poet, that he has that 
capacity which is the appanage of all his 
race, of entering into close communion 
with the spirit of nature, the spirit that 
broods over all created thin^i^s. Speaking 
of the poets in another work, the writer 
himself says: — 

It is they 

Who utter wisdom from the central deep, 

And, listening to the inner flow of things, 

Speak to the age out of eternity. 

We cannot quit these early poems, with 
their myriad natural beauties, and the 
rich local color they present, without some 
references to the '* Indian Summer Rev- 
erie,'' a poem probably surpassing all oth- 
ers for felicitousness of language and 
wealth of observation. Here is a beauti- 
ful single image, ** The clouds like swans 
drift down the streaming atmosphere," 
followed by this stanza : — 

O'er yon bare knoll the pointed cedar 
Drowse on the crisp, gray moss ; the plough- 
man's call 
Creeps faint as smoke from black, fresh- 
furrowed meadows — 
The single crow a single caw lets fall ; 

And all around me every bush |nd tree 
Says Autumn's here, and Winter soon will 
Who snows his soft, white sleep and silence 
over all. 

A description of the marshes in spring 
makes one long for the rest and repose so 
graphically and poetically indicated. 

In Spring they lie one broad expanse of 
O'er which the light winds run with glimmer- 
ing feet. 
Here, yellower stripes crack out the creek 
There, darker growths o'er hidden ditches 
And purpler stains show where the blossoms 

As if the silent shadow of a cloud 
Hung there becalmed, with the next breath to 

All round, upon the river's slippery edge, 
Witching to deep>er calm the drowsy tide. 
Whispers and leans the breeze-entangling 
sedge ; 
Through emerald glooms the lingering waters 
Or, sometimes wavering, throw back the sun, 
And the stiff banks in eddies melt and run 
Of dimpling light, and with the current seem 
to glide. 

Two more stanzas, depicting with copi- 
ous imagery the effects of winter, and we 
must leave this fascinating poem. 

Then, 'every mom, the river's banks shine 
With smooth plate-armor, treacherous and 
By the frost's clinking hammers forged at 
'Gainst which the lances of the sun prevail. 
Giving a pretty emblem of the day 
When guiltier arms in light shall melt away. 
And states shall move free-limbed, loosed from 
war's cramping mail. 

And now those waterfalls, the ebbing river 
Twice every day creates on either side 
Tinkle, as through their fresh-sparred grots 
they shiver 
In grass-arched channels to the sun denied ; 
High flaps in sparkling blue the far-heard 

The silvered flats gleam frostily below. 
Suddenly drops the gull, and breaks the glassy 

But the deep pathos in some of Mr. 
Lowell's poems is as striking as any of 
his other qualities. No common note was 
reached in *• The First Snow-Fail," a poem 
written in memory of his flrst-born ; but of 
all effusions of this class he has written 
nothing so touching and so exquisite as 


**The Cliangjeling." It may be a bold thing 
to say, but it seems to us that the pathetic 
and unadorned simph'city of this poem has 
never been surpassed by any English 
writer. It seems scarcely credible that 
its author should be our humorous friend 
Hosea Biglow ; but what a glimpse of the 
man*s real heart we get in it ! We quote 
the whole, for the simple reason that the 
excision of one stanza would spoil the 
poem, and we are unwilling to take the 
responsibility of saying which is unworthy 
of the rest. 

I had a little daughter, 

And she was given to me 
To lead me gently backward 

To the Heavenly Father's knee, 
That I, by the force of Nature, 

Mieht in some dim wise divine 
The depths of his infinite patience 

To this wayward soul of mine. 

I know not how others saw her. 

But to me she was wholly fair. 
And the light of the Heaven she came from 

Still lingered and gleamed in her hair ; 
For it was as wavy and golden. 

And as many changes took, 
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples 

On the yellow bed of a brook. 

To what can I liken her smiling 

Upon me, her kneeling lover, 
How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids. 

And dimpled her wholly over, 
Till her outstretched hands smiled also, 

And I almost seemed to see 
The very heart of her mother 

Sending sun through her veins to me I 

She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth. 

And it hardly seemed a day. 
When a troop of wandering angels 

Stole my little daughter away ; 
Or perhaps those heavenly Zingari 

But loosed the hampering strings. 
And when they had opened her cage-door, 

My little bird used her wings. 

But they left in her stead a changeling, 

A little angel child. 
That seems like her bud in full blossom. 

And smiles as she never smiled : 
When I awake in the morning, I see it 

Where she always used to lie, 
And I feel as weak as a violet 

Alone 'neath the awful sky ; 

As weak, yet as trustful also, 

For the whole year long I see 
All the wonders of faithful Nature 

Still worked for the love of me ; 
Winds wander, and dews drip earthward. 

Rain falls, suns rise and set, 
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper 

A poor little violet. 

This child is not mine as the first was, 

I cannot sing it to rest, 
I cannot lift it up fatherly 

And bless it upon my breast ; 
Vet it lies in my little one's cradle. 

And sits in my little one's chair, 
And the light of the Heaven she's gone to 

Transfigures its golden hair. 

Now it is quite true that the Americans 
"are reckoned a practical folk, who would 
rather hear about a new air-tight stove 
than about Plato;" and yet in many re- 
spects they are the most impressionable 
people under the sun. They have a pecul- 
iar relish for all works of imagination, and 
the number of readers of poetry and fic- 
tion in the United States far exceeds the 
total number of such readers in the mother 
country. They are quite singular, in fact, 
in this respect. The most popular public 
lecturer in the United States for nearly 
half a century was Ralph Waldo Emerson, 
whose intellect was of so strangely com- 
posite a character. No one can say that 
his head was not well screwed upon his 
shoulders, speaking in a practical sense, 
and yet there has probably never been an 
American writer with so little of earth's 
dross in him. In some moods he is de- 
lightfully dreamy; in others his voice is 
like the sound of a trumpet ; in all there 
is the decisive presence of imagination. 
So when we come to Mr. Lowell, we find 
in him strains fit either for the busy mart 
of life or the quiet retirement of the 
woods. Man is the great object of his 
song, because the world must be advanced 
to attain the full stature of greatness; but 
the poet is almost equally devoted to na- 
ture. While he has too much common 
sense to be merely rhapsodical, he can be 
as delightfully dreamy and reflective as 
the old bards. Then, too, he has other 
claims. His ethical code is healthful and 
refreshing; he analyzes human nature 
with all the magical power, if also with 
the tenderness,' of the skilfullest of soul- 
physicians. He is the best of all meta- 
physcians, because his conclusions are 
based, not upon theory, but upon the 
heart-throbs of that humanity whose soul 
he endeavors to pierce. 

In the year 1848 Mr. Lowell published 
his ** Fable for Critics," a totally new ven- 
ture on the part of his muse. The poem 
was really a glance at " a few of our literary 
progenies," to use Mrs. Malaprop's word, 
and its pointed and definite allusions will 
sufficiently account for its popularity. Its 
author is so excellent a prose critic that, 
had these sketches of his contemporaries 
appeared in the homely garb of unrhymed 



Saxon, we may be sure that some of the 
opinions expressed would have been con- 
siderably modified. But, making allow- 
ances for the exi};^encies of the situation, 
the portraits are dashed in with no small 
amount of skill and vigor. Edgar Allan 
Poe, indeed, was much annoyed by this 
fable, which he described as essentially 
** loose, ill conceived, and feebly executed, 
as well in detail as in general. Some 
good hits, and some sparkling witticisms, 
do not serve to compensate for its ram- 
bling plot (if plot it can be called), and for 
the want of artistic finish, so particularly 
noticeable throughout the work, especially 
in its versification." But then it must be 
remembered that Poe was handled by the 
author with no velvety hand. The esti- 
mate of Professor Francis Bowen was 
much nearer the mark, which described 
the fable as **a very pleasant and spark- 
ling poem, abounding in flashes of bril- 
liant satire, edged with wit enough to 
delight even its victims." Mr. Griswold, 
while admitting the excellence of the 
work, thought that the caustic severity of 
some of its judgments might be attrib 
uted to a desire for retaliation. But this 
notion was surely most erroneous, for in 
such a nature as that of Mr. Lowell the 
mean sentiment of jealousy could have 
no place. The whole thing is not so di- 
rect, does not go so straight to the point, 
as Goldsmith's ** Retaliation ; " and for 
the sake of future readers, the author 
would do well to cancel a good deal of its 
preliminary extraneous matter, and sup- 
ply by way of footnote some details of the 
authors dealt with. The claims and pe- 
culiarities of the writers satirized will not 
always be present in the mind of the aver- 
age reader, and the whole <hing is so good 
that we should be sorry to see the points 
lost on account of their obsoleteness. In 
the comic literature of our time Lord Bea- 
consfield is immediately recognized by the 
one curl which remains upon the aged 
forehead of Vivian Grey; but it would be 
absurd to say that this well-known curl 
was his lordship's only striking character- 
istic. Yet the fault of Mr. Lowell's por- 
traitures is that he has seized upon acci- 
dental mental characteristics in American 
authors — in some cases totally unrecog- 
nizable by European readers, and has 
dwelt upon these to the exclusion of oth- 
ers more essential. We are therefore 
not astonished to find that exception was 
taken to his sketches of Bryant and Dana, 
for example. Yet he does not shirk words 
of generous praise, in the majority of in- 
stances; and while he may be mistaken 

in some of his judgments, we may dismiss 
as incredible ana impossible the idea 
that Mr. Lowell has in these sketches 
set down anything with " malice afore- 
thought:" with contemporary verse of its 
class, in fact, this poetic review of promi- 
nent American writers may be allowed to 
take high rank. 

In 1869 appeared another volume of 
miscellaneous poetry by Mr. Lowell, enti- 
tled *' Under the Willows, and other Po- 
ems." Some of these poems were de- 
scriptive, some narrative, and others 
connected with the war, but there was the 
same conspicuous merit in all: the war 
poems were the most thrilling, concen- 
trating as they did the profound emotions 
of a nation. There was so noble a fervor 
in them, and all were so distinctively ele- 
vated in tone, as to challenge for the 
America from which they sprang a greater 
affection and reverence than many in this 
country had been previously wont to pay 
her. The echoes of the great civil war 
were still ringing in men's ears, but the 
vanquished as well as the victorious might 
derive much-needed lessons from these 
effusions, whose general tone and spirit 
commended them to all. Mr. Lowell is 
the prophet of peace; though he would 
not shrink from drawing the sword in a 
case of great necessity, he has greater joy 
in seeing it return to its scabbard. His 
happiest moments are those in which he 
pictures a serene and blessed future. 
How truly poetical and grandly patriotic 
is this apostrophe at the close of the com- 
memorative ode recited at the Harvard 
commemoration ! — 

Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found re- 
lease ; 
Thy God, in these distempered days. 
Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His 
And through thine enemies bath wrought thy 
peace I 
Bow down in prayer and praise I 
No poorest in thy borders but may now 
Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised 

O Beautiful ! my Country I ours once more I 
Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair 
O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, 
And letting thy set lips. 
Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, 
The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, 
What words divine of lover or of poet 
Could tell our love and make thee know it. 
Among the nations bright beyond compare ? 
What were our lives without thee ? 
What all our lives to save thee ? 
We reck not what we gave thee : 
We will not dare to doubt thee. 
But ask whatever else, and we will dare 1 


Nor ought we to omit mention of the 
tribute to Lincoln in this poem. This 
great patriot has already been the subject 
of more eulogies probably than any man 
of his time, but the language has not al- 
ways been well chosen or the ideas har- 
monious with their subject. Mr. Lowell 
does not offend in this regard; the stur- 
diest Briton will go with him to the full 
in the character of his eulogy. The poet 
sings bow that Nature 

For him her Old- World moulds aside she 
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 
Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, 
Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and 
How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, 
Not lured by any cheat of birth, 
But by his clear-grained human worth ; 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 

Here was a type of the true elder race, 
And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face 
to face, 

"Under the Willows" and "Pictures 
from Appledore" are written in a simple 
yet effective descriptive vein,' and " The 
Voyage to Vinland" is a fine narrative, in 
which occurs one of the author's happiest 
lyrics. Those who think that Mr. Lowell 
scarcely did justice to some of his breth- 
ren in letters in bis "Fable for Critics" 
w*ll find more than the amende honorable 
in this volume in such poems as those ad- 
dressed to Mr. Bryant and Mr. Longfel- 
low. But the strongest utterances of all, 
and those which cling most closely in the 
memory, are the poems and ballads in 
which the author deals with human emo- 
tion. J or an example of such take " The 
Dead House," whose pathos must find its 
way to any heart. 

In some respects "The Cathedral," 
published in 1869, deserves to rank as the 
highest of all Mr. Lowell's poetical pro- 
ductions, and we are somewhat surprised 
that it has received but scant recognition 
in this country. It is deeply introspec- 
tive, and charged with pathetic memories 
of the long ago. There is not a page that 
does not contain some striking thought. 
The poem reminds us greatly of that most 
beautiful of elegiac works, the "In Me- 
rooriam " of Lord Tennyson ; and yet the 
two are as dissimilar in conception as in 
treatment. But both are fine spiritual 
poems. While our own great writer has 

the advantage in sheer intellectual force, 
the note seems to us clearer and more de- 
cisive in Mr. Lowell, and he speaks as one 
who trod on firmer ground. The temper- 
ament of the two men naturally tinges 
works which have been infused with so 
much of their own personal feeling and 
sentiment. Perplexed by the vast moral 
and spiritual problems around him, Ten- 
nyson looks for their solution " within the 
veil." Mr. Lowell is rather happy and 
trustful in the present. By faith he rises 
above "the smoke and stir of this dim 
spot." In speculative power and absolute 
poetic capacity Lord Tennyson is unques- 
tionably the superior; but Mr. Lowell (we 
are speaking now only of the two works 
we have momentarily placed in compari- 
son) with true and agile instinct leaps to 
the lessons of the present from a contem- 
plation of the past. What a triumphant 
uprising of the spirit there is in the final 
lines of "The Cathedral," as the poet 
shakes from himself the dust of doubt, 
and the jangling of the creeds fades in his 
ear ! — 

If sometimes I must hear good men debate 

Of other witness of Thyself than Thou, 

As if there needed any help of ours 

To nurse thy flickering life, that else, must 

Blown out, as 'twere a candle, by men's breath, 
My soul shall not be taken in their snare. 
To change her inward surety for their doubt 
MufHed from sight in formal robes of proof : 
While she can only feel herself through Thee, 
I fear not Thy withdrawal ; more I fear. 
Seeing, to know Thee not, hoodwinked with 

Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed. Thou, 
Walking Thy garden still, commun'st with 

Missed in the commonplace of miracle. 

Peculiarly rich is this poem in what we 
may call single poetical thoughts — lines 
in which are concentrated the ideas and 
emotions which have moved men, but 
which they have lacked the power of ut- 
terance to describe. Let us take a few of 
these at random. Speaking of happy days 
indelibly fixed in the memory, he likens 
them to 

words made magical by poets dead, 
Wherein the music of all meaning is 
The sense hath garnered or the soul divined. 

Again, " Second thoughts are prose," and 
" First passion beggars all behind." How 
tenderly beautiful is this recollection ! — 

The bird I hear sings not from yonder elm ; 
But the flown ecstasy my childhood heard 



Is vocal in my mind, renewed by him, 
Haply made sweeter by the accumulate thrill 
That threads my undivided life and steals 
A pathos from the years and graves between. 

To one who lives thus all nature must be 
vocal. He is in the cathedral at Char- 
tres, and thus he meditates : — 

I gazed abashed, 
Child of an age that lectures, not creates. 
Plastering our swallow-nests on the awful Past, 
And twittering round th^ works of larger men. 
As we had builded what we but deface. 

Then he attains a far higher level, this 
time of spiritual vision — 

Be He nowhere else, 
God is in all that liberates and lifts. 
In all that humbles, sweetens, and consoles: 
Blessid the natures shored on every side 
With landmarks of hereditary thought I 

Next all in a moment his reverie is dis- 
turbed by the intrusion of the practical 
age in which we live, — 

This age that blots out life with question- 
This nineteenth century with its knife and glass 
That make thought physical, and thrust far off 
The Heaven, so neighborly with men of old. 
To voids sparse-sown with alienated stars. 

Now hear him upon science and ethics — 
and the warning he gives cannot be said to 
be superfluous: — 

Science was Faith once ; Faith were Science 

Would she but lay her bows and arrows by. 
And arm her with the weapons of the time. 
Nothing that keeps thought out is safe from 

thought : 
For there's no virgin-fort but self-respect. 
And Truth defensive hath lost hold on God. 

Prizing more than he does Plato things 
which he learnt at bis mother's knee, the 
poet exclaims : — 

Let us be thankful when, as I do here. 
We can read Bethel on a pile of stones. 
And, seeing where God has been, trust in Him. 

He cannot quite repress his natural sar- 
casm as he looks forward to the time when 
the Church of the ideal man shall be, — 

No parlor where men issue policies 
Of life-assurance on the Eternal Mind. 

'* Man still rises level with the height of 
noblest opportunities," and he deprecates 
all such ideas as that 

good days were shapen of themselves. 
Not of the very life-blood of men's souls. 

One thought more from this work, which 
is as crowded with such things as the 
midnight sky is with the stars : — 

Thou beautiful Old Time, now hid away 
In the Past's valley of Avilion, 
Haply, like Arthur, till thy wound be healed, 
Then to reclaim the sword and crown again I 

We are unwilling to leave the graver 
branch of our subject, however, without a 
few more quotations, illustrating what we 
may call this thought-crystallizing power, 
from other poems. The opening of the 
ode read at the one-hundredth anniversary 
of the fight at Concord Bridge, the 19th 

of April, 1875, ^^'^ ^ ^^^%, ii^ i^ ^'^^ '^^^ ^^ 
Swinburne, both as regards melody and 
alliterative force, and the vounger bard 
might well have been proucf to have writ- 
ten it. It is an address to freedom, ten- 
der and yet impassioned. 

Who Cometh over the hills. 
Her garments with morning sweet. 
The dance of a thousand rills 
Making music before her feet ? 
Her presence freshens the air ; 
Sunshine steals light from her face ; 
The leaden footstep of Care 
Leaps to the tune of her pace, 
Fairness of all that is fair, 
Grace at the heart of all grace. 
Sweetener of hut and of hall, 
Bringer of life out of naught. 
Freedom, O fairest of all 
The daughters of Time and Thought ! 

But the goddess is even more than this : 
she is 

Our sweetness, our strength, and our star. 
Our hope, our joy, and our trust. 
Who lifted us out of the dust. 
And made us whatever we are ! 

In another vigorous memorial poem, en- 
titled "Under the old Elm" — read at 
Cambridge on the hundredth anniversary 
of Washington's taking command of the 
American army, the 3rd of July, 1775 — 
Mr. Lowell graphically pictures the great 
Virginian as creating a nation when he 
unsheathed his sword: — 

Out of that scabbard sprang, as from its womb. 
Nebulous at first but hardening to a star, 
Through mutual share of sunburst and of 

The common faith that made us what we are. 

Is it not also true as the poet claims, 

A great man's memory is the only thing 
With influence to outcast the present whim 
And bind us as when here he knit our golden 

Phrases to be remembered, such as " Not 
failure, but low aim, is crime," abound 
in Mr. Lowell's works. In ** The Dead 
House " he asks whether it is neces- 



sary to go to Paris or Rome to learn the 
simple lessoQ that ** the many make the 
household, but only one the home." In 
" What Rabbi Jehosha said," and many 
other poems, he teaches the grandeur of 
Christian charity and Christian humility. 
In fact, he is one of the profoundest 
preachers (and never offensive withal) in 
the whole brotherhood of song. In all 
seasons he insists upon his cardinal les- 
son that 

There is no wind but soweth seeds 

Of a more true and open life, 
Which burst, unlooked for, into high-souled 

With wayside beauty rife. 

On the oldest subject in the world — 
that of love — he has something true and 
pure to say : — 

Love asks no evidence 
To prove itself well placed : we know not 

It gleans the straws that thatch its humble 

bower : 
We can but say we found it in the heart. 
Spring of all sweetest thoughts, arch foe of 

Sower of flowers in the dusty mart. 
Pure, vestal of the poet*s holy flame, — 
This is enough, and we have done our part 
If we but keep it spotless as it came. 

A passage from " Above and Below," to 
demonstrate still further Mr. Lowell's 
command of really magnificent imagery, 
must be given : — 

The Lord wants reapers i Oh, mount up. 

Before night comes, and says, ** Too late 1 " 
Stay not for taking scrip or cup. 

The Master hungers while ye wait : 
Tis from these heights alone your eyes 

The advancing spears of day can see, 
Which o'er the eastern hilltops rise, 

To break your long captivity. 

Lone watcher on the mountain height I 

It is right precious to behold 
The first long surf of climbing light 

Flood all the thirsty east with gold ; 
But we, who in the shadow sit. 

Know also when the day is nigh, 
Seeing thy shining forehead lit 

With his inspiring prophecy. 

From the fifth to the last of these sixteen 
lines there is nothing but a iour deforce 
in the way of pictorial writing. In leaving 
the miscellaneous poems of this writer we 
have only one further observation to make 
upon their moral aspect : notwithstanding 
that the aim and spirit of their author 
were at an early period in his career mis- 
conceived, nothing could more conclu- 
sively prove the wide catholicity and the 

liberality of his sentiments than the poems 
themselves. He may well yield them to 
the arbitrament of time without apology. 

We now come to the series of poems 
which have justly earned for Mr. Lowell 
the distinction of being the greatest of all 
American humorists. Since Homer Wil- 
bur, A.M., pastor of the First Church in 
Jaalam, and (prospective) member of many 
literary, learned, and scientific societies, 
first edited the papers of Hosea Biglow, 
there has been an avalanche of Ameri- 
can humorists, but in this case, to adopt 
the language of the turf, Mr. Biglow is 
first, and the rest (with one or two ex- 
ceptions) "nowhere." His humor is a 
distinctly national creation. Yet although 
it is purely American in its inception, it 
has qualities which make it as universal 
as the humor of Sir John Falstaff or Don 
Quixote. It has been claimed, and not 
inaptly, that there is quite an Elizabethan 
flavor about it, in that it is "audible and 
full of vent." We shall not enter into the 
question whether a writer is justified in 
seizing upon local foibles and characteris- 
tics for the purpose of giving point to the 
edge of his satire, and driving home the 
lessons he desires to inculcate. That 
question may be regarded as already set- 
tled in the affirmattve. Mr. Lowell is as * 
completely justified in the use of his par- 
ticular vehicle of satire as any other 
satirist whom the world has seen. The 
language he presses into his service may 
be more uncouth and less pliable than any 
other, but the justification for its use must 
be found in its effect. In this respect the 
author now needs no apology. His work, 
though not equal in conception, is as good 
of its kind as that of Rabelais or Cer- 
vantes, or Richter. In meaiuring its value, 
the circumstances which called it into 
being must be remembered. The writer 
found the nation of which he formed a 
part in danger of forgetting the principles 
which had secured its own freedom, and 
he used such weapons as came to his 
hand for combating the evil. He did so 
with singular effect, and "The Biglow 
Papers " were received with marked favor 
" from their droll and felicitous portraiture 
of the Yankee character and dialect, and 
their successful hits at the national pas- 
sion for military glory. Political oppo- 
nents as well as friends laughed loud and 
long at the Birdofredum Sawin's letters, 
describing his experience in the wars, and 
the mishaps that he encountered before 
he could make his way home again." The 
first series of papers which the American 
Hudibras issued were chiefly directed 



against the iDvasion of Mexico by the 
Uaited States and the state of the slavery 
question. Although Mr. Lowell was in 
antagonism with the feeling of the major- 
ity of his countrymen at that time upon 
these matters, he did not flinch from what 
he deemed to be his duty, but lashed out 
against the popular notions with vigor. 
The probability is that now he has nine 
out of ten cultivated Americans with him. 
But he had the courage to be in the right 
when it was not so easy as it is now. 
The introductions of Mr. Wilbur to the 
various ballads have a tendency to be too 
long drawn out, yet he says many good 
things. Of course, with the pride of his 
race, he institutes comparisons between 
John and Jonathan to the advantage of 
the latter, but altogether we feel very 
friendly towards this discursive, button- 
holing Yankee, who is as delightfully pro- 
lix as Coleridge ; but when we come to 
Mr. Hosea Biglow's lucubrations, we are 
bound to admire his courage and laugh at 
his humor. Some of his flying touches at 
the deepest questions are very droll : — 

What's the use o* meetin*-goin' 

Every Sabbath, wet or dry, 
Ef it's right to go a-mowin* 

Feller-men like oats an* rye ? 
I dunno but wut it's pooty 

Trainin* round in bobtail coats, — 
But it's curus Christian dooty 

This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats. 

Mr. Wilbur is of opinion that the first 
recruiting sergeant on record was that 
individual who is mentioned in the Book 
of Job as "going to and fro in the earth, 
and walking up and down in it." Bishop 
Latimer thought he must have been a 
bishop, but to Homer the other calling 
appears more congenial. He reminds us 
that the profession of arms was always in 
time past judged to be that of a gentle- 
man, but he cannot hold, with that nicely 
metaphysical Pomeranian Captain Vratz, 
that **the scheme of salvation has been 
arranged with an especial eye to the neces- 
sities of the upper classes, and that God 
would consider a ^entleman^ and deal 
with him suitably to the condition and 
profession he had placed himself in.'* 
But Biglow, in his antipathy to the Mexi- 
can war, has not the least reverence for 
that august personage, the recruiting ser- 

Jest go home an* ask our Nancy 
Whether I'd be sech a goose 

Ez to jinc ye, — guess she'd fancy 
The ctarnal bung wuz loose 1 

She wants me for home consumption, 

Let alone the hay's to mow : 
Ef you're arter folks o' gumption, 

You've a darned long row to hoe. 

On the same subject Hosea tells us 
what Mr. Robinson thinks. He is dead 
for the war, whereupon Biglow remarks : 

We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' 
An* thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a 
saint ; 
But John P. 
Robinson, he 
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee. 

Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life 
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swal- 
ler-tail coats. 
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a 
To git some on 'em office, an' some on *em 
votes ; 
But John P. 
Robmson, he 
Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. 

The poet writes very strongly against 
the writers of the time, who were largely 
responsible for fanning the popular war 
ideas into a flame. His** Pious Editor's 
Creed," however, is capable of a wider 
application, and probably will be to the 
end of time. 

I du believe in prayer an' praise 

To him that hez the grantin' 
O' jobs — in everythin' thet pays. 

But most of all in Cantin' ; 
This doth my cup with roarcies fill, 

This lays all thought o' sin to rest, — 
I dan't believe in pnncerple, 

But O, I du in interest. 

In short I firmly du believe 

In Humbug generally. 
For it's a thing thet I perceive 

To have a solid vally ; 
This hath my faithful shepherd been, 

In pasturs sweet hath led me, 
An' this'll keep the people green 

To feed ez they have fed me. 

There is a very amusing sketch of a 
candidate for the presidency, who objects 
to pledges, because they are so embar- 
rassing; if he has **one p>ecooler feetur, it 
is a nose thet wunt be led," and his politi- 
cal creed generally is summed up in these 
four lines — 

Ez to my princerples, I glory 

In havin' nothin' o' the sort; 
I ain't a Whig, I ain't a Tory, 

I'm jest a candidate, in short. 

There is uproarious fun in Birdofreduro 
Sawin's account of his experiences during 



the war. He thought to acquire great 
glory and profit in the Mexican campaign, 
and so ** wuz fool enuff to go a trottin' 
into Miss Cbiff arter a drum an* fife.'' 
He loses an arm, a leg, and an eye, and 
altogether his account with glory is not a 
refreshing one. Still he considers that 
the remnant of him is good enough as a 
candidate for the presidency, and his re- 
flections show much acuteness in the 
reading of character and the way to push 
his claims. One of the best pricking of 
shams will be found in Hosea Biglow's 
report of a speech by Increase D. OThace, 
Esq., *'at an extrumpery caucus," which 
may be taken as a manifesto against un 
principled orators of all kinds. Many 
lines in this efiEusion, as for example the 
following, have already attained the widest 
popularity : — 

A mardful Providence fashioned us holler 
O* purpose tbet we might our principles swol- 

The sarcasm here is very pointed : — 

Vm willin' a man should go tollable strong 
Agin wrong in the abstract, for thet kind o* 

Is oilers onpoplar, and never gets pitied. 
Because it's a crime no one never committed ; 
But he mustn*t be hard on par tickler sins, 
Coz then he'll be kickin' the people's own 


Again : — 

Constitooents air bandy to help a man in, 
Bat arterwards don't weigh the heft of a pin. 

The second series of "The Biglow Pa- 
pers," published in book form in 1867, 
and dealing with questions preceding and 
relating to the civil war, attracted equal 
attention with the first. There was in 
them the same keen, practical philosophy 
applied to the questions of the day. Ho- 
sea is as sarcastic as usual in his conjec- 
tural report of " a message of Je£E Davis 
in secret session : " — 

We've got all the ellermunts, this very hour, 
That make up a f us'-class, self-go vernin' power ; 
We've a war, an' a debt, an' a flag ; an' ef this 
Ain't to be indurpendunt, why, what on airth 

But the greatest want of the South was 
'^ plausible paper to print 1 O U's on." 
The Honorable Preserved Doe, in his 
speech in secret caucus, enlightens states- 
men generally as to the right rule of con- 
duct in political matters : — 

A ginooine statesman should be on his guard, 
Ef he mtui hev beliefs, not to b'lieve °em tu 

For ez sure ez he does, he'll be blurtin' 'em out 
'Thout regardin' the natur' o' man more'n a 

Nor it don't ask much gumption to pick out a 

In a party whose leaders are loose in the jaw : 
An' so in our own case I ventur' to hint 
Thet we'd better not air our perceedins in 

Nor pass resserlootions ez long ez your arm 
Thet may, ez things happen to turn, do us 

For when you've done all your real meanin' to 

The darned things '11 up an* mean sunthin' or 


Mr. Carlyle would probably have gone 
a great way with our author in his opinion 

The right to be a cussed fool 
Is safe from all devices human, 

It's common (ez a gin'ral rule) 
To every critter born o' woman. 

We have occupied nearly the whole of 
our space in discussing Mr. Lowell's 
claims as a poet ; yet, as one of his Trans- 
atlantic admirers has observed, his "prose 
writings are as remarkable as his poetry; 
the copiousness of his illustrations, the 
richness of his imagery, the easy flow of 
his sentences, the keenness of his wit, 
and the force and clearness of his reason- 
ii)?< give to his reviews and essays a fasci- 
nating charm that would place him in the 
front rank of our prose writers, if he did 
not occupy a similar position among our 
poets." It would be unpardonable did 
we not make some allusion to those admi- 
rable compositions which have entitled 
him to be regarded amongst the first of 
living critics. There is a terrible strain- 
ing to say something new upon old-world 
topics among modern writers, yet Mr. 
Lowell has accomplished the feat. We 
may not always agree with him in his esti- 
mate of Dryden, for example — it is diffi- 
cult to do so — but there he is, with an 
enviable power of analysis, and a capacity 
to enter into the very souls of some of 
our cherished literary gods, which we can 
but envy. His ** Shakespeare once More," 
in the first series of "Among my Books," 
is an illustration of what we mean. We 
should like to quote, but space forbids. 
Emerson is at times profounder, but Low- 
ell is singularly direct in his analysis of 
the power of the world's sovereign poet. 
From the essay on Dante, also, in the 
second series of " Among my Books," we 
had marked some score passages for quo- 
tation, but must refer the reader to the 
whole essay as one of the most compre- 


hensive estimates of the great Italian poet wrath of his foes, but few can stand un« 
that have ever been written. We will moved those shafts of invective and scorn 
content ourselves with the closing passage which pierce them, as it were, under the 
of the criticism: — fifth rib. It is as much the duty of its 
At the Round Table of King Arthur there O'^^oer to use this talent of ridicule in the 
was left always one seat empty for him who world s service, as it is the duty of a 
should accoqiplish the adventure of the Holy Claude to paint his divine landscapes, or 
Grail. It was called the perilous seat, because a Luther to thunder forth his anathemas 
of the dangers he must encounter who would against vice and error. In degree, it 
win it. In the company of the epic poets there would be as absurd to attempt to assess 
was a place left for whoever should embody the poetical faculties of Shakespeare from 
the Christian idea of a triumphant life, out- i^jg Touchstones and his Gobbos as to 
wardly all defeat, inwardly victorious, who ^^^^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^jj l^^^jj j^om Ho- 
should make us partakers of that cupof sor- 3., ^ Birdofredum Sawin. It 
row in which all are communicants with Christ. . j.^ •* ,, , j » 
He who should do this would indeed achieve >* d'fficult to regard contemporary writers 
the perilous seat, for he must combine poesy wholly detached from the influence of 
with doctrine in such cunning wise that the those popular ideas which surround them ; 
one lose not its beauty nor the other its severity and so, by the great majority of readers, 
— and Dante has done it. As he takes posses- it is to be feared, Mr. LowelTs genius is 
sion of it we seem to hear the cry he himself measured chiefly by the clever vagaries of 
heard when Virgil rejoined the company of Hosea Biglow, and his pastor, the Rev. 
great singers, "All honor to the loftiest of Homer Wilbur. It has been our object 
P^^^ 1 partly to correct this impression by dwell- 
Yet even in such noble essays as the ing upon those serious poems of Mr. 
one on Milton the writer cannot suppress Lowell which more fully attest his genius 
his wit, but observes of the author of than anything that he has written. The 
"Paradise Lost*' that, "since Dante, no Elizabethan writers are placed at so great 
one had stood on such visiting terms with a distance from us that we can regard the 
heaven." A perfectly delightful book of developments of their genius with a free 
happy, garrulous prose is " My Study and unbiassed spirit, giving to each its 
Windows," although it does not vie with due proportion. Though the time may 
either of its predecessors in the depth be far distant, it must come when this will 
and range of pure criticism. But such be the case with such writers as Mr. Low- 
papers as that "On a Certain Condescen- ell. In any case, we are convinced that 
sion in Foreigners" may well be envied no poetic note higher or deeper than his, 
by living essayists for touches as genial no aspirations more finely touched towards 
and incisive as those of Leigh Hunt or lofty issues, no voice more powerful for 
Charles Lamb. Mr. Lowell must have truth and freedom, have hitherto come to 
been in a strait betwixt two when nature us from across the Atlantic, 
endowed him with the susceptible imag- G. Barnett Smith. 
ination of the poet on the one hand, and 

the clear judicial intellect of the critic on 

the other. 

It may with truth be assumed that the ^ .. ... , ., 

r^t L'L .. .. »i From Mactnillan's Magaxine. 

essence of the highest poetry is the per- ^^^ dymond. 
ception of the deep things of nature, hu- 
manity, and God. Though clowns jostle ^^ ^^^ Ritchie. 
kings in Shakespeare, there are moments chapter xiii. 
when the bard is rapt in a divine ecstasy. 
These supreme moments come to every 
poet. They are very frequent with the The sound of children's footsteps pat- 
subject of our article, and he who would tering about the house is perhaps the 
attempt to gauge either his endowments sweetest music that has ever fallen on 
or his general moods, by his overflowing listeningmothers'ears, or that their hearts 
wit, would do Mr. Lowell the greatest have ever kept time to. When Susanna 
injustice. He is in so far the product of Dymond first heard her little Pbrasie's 
his times that he must take part in all the merry heels stumping overhead, her flrst 
movements affecting the welfare of those waking hours seemed to brim over with 
who surround him. He is indignant over happiness. The thought of her little one 
the curse of slavery, but, when indignation seemed to shine in her face, to beam from 
fails to move, he calls in the potent aid of her eyes — some indescribable new charm 
ridicule. Many a tyrant has braved the was hers. She was shy, her beauty used 




to fade ia the presence of strangers and 
uncoDa:eniaI people; it shone and gathered 
and brightened for those of her own home, 
for her husband, her step-children, her 
own little one. Small and young as 
Phrasie was, she seemed to fill the whole 
big house at Crowbeck from her early 
morning to her no less early evening, for 
Phrasie set with the sun in winter and 
went to roost in summer time with her 
favorite cocks and hens. She was a 
friendly, generous, companionable little 
soul. As soon as Phrasie was able to 
walk at all, it was her pleasure to trot up 
to the people she loved with little pres- 
ents of her own contriving, bits of string, 
Crecious crusts, portions of her toys, 
roken off for the purposes of her gen- 

**Da,*' says she, stuffing a doll's leg 
into her big sister's hand. 

Phrasie was rather bored when poor 
Tempy suddenly caught her up, bugged 
her passionately, kissed her. 

" A-da-da-dad ; no, no," cries little sis- 
ter, objecting and tearing out a handful of 
Tempy*s red locks in self-defence. 

Fayfay, as Phrasie called herself, was 
certainly one of the round pegs for which 
the round holes are waiting in the world 
— no hard sides, no square, ill-fitting cor- 
ners, but kind, soft nests, already lined 
with love and welcome. Miss Phrasie, 
perching on her mother's knee, took it all 
as a matter of course. How could she, 
little baby that she was, guess at the ten- 
der wild love which throbbed in her moth- 
er's heart, at the wonder and delight her 
father felt as he gazed at his pretty shrine 
of home and motherhood, at the sweet 
wife, the round, happy, baby face, and the 
little legs and arms struggling with jolly 
exuberance ? and even old and wise and 
experienced as we are, and babies no 
longer, I wonder which of us could count 
up all the love which has been ours, all 
the food looks, the tender, innocent pride 
which has been given. So Phrasie went 
her way, unembarrassed by false humility. 

Tempy was devoted to the child, and 
seemed to find her best companionship 
with that small and cheerful person. 
Tempy used to carry Fayfay about in her 
arms all over the place, up into her room, 
out into the garden again, from the garden 
to the pigsty, from that fascinating spot 
to the poultry yard, where the chickens 
were picketing round about the ch&Uts 
where their Cochin China mothers were 
confined, or to the stables where the pup- 
pies were squeaking in the straw. It 
would be bard to say, when the stable 

door opened, letting in the light and the 
crumbs of cake and Miss Phrasie and her 
capers, whether the puppies or Phrasie 
most enjoyed each other's society; these 
youthful denizens of Crowbeck seemed 
made for one another. She was not very 
unlike a little curly puppy herself in her 
ways, confident, droll, eager, 'expecting 
the whole world, from her father down- 
ward, to have nothing better to do than to 
play with her, to hide behind doors and 
curtains, to go down on all fours if need 
be. Josselin was almost as devoted to 
her as Tempy, but for the first two years 
of Miss Phrasie's existence he was very 
little at home. The first year and a half 
after his father's marriage he spent at a 
private tutor's ; then came Cambridge and 
new interests and new life for the young 
man, while Tempy lived on still in the old 
life, and among the old thoughts and pros- 
pects. Phrasie was the one new life and 
interest in Crowbeck. For Tempy time 
did not efface old feelings, but only re- 
peated those of the past more vividly each 
time. Perhaps her father took it for 
granted that because she was silent all 
was as he wished, and that she had ceased 
to think of Charles Bolsover, indeed one 
day he said as much with quiet satisfac- 
tion to Susanna, who looked a doubtful 
acquiescence. But Tempy was absolutely 
reserved about herself; neither to her 
inquiring Aunt Fanny, nor to her step- 
mother would she say one word. I think 
Phrasie was the only person to whom 
Tempy Dymond ever made any confi- 

"Don't ty, To-to," said Phrasie one 
day, *Moz it's vezzy naughty." 

Tempy laughed, and began to play bo- 
peep behind the sheet of the Times \s\'\\z\\ 
had made her cry; it was a June-day 
Times^ with Oxford and Cambridge lists 
in its columns. Phrasie couldn't read, 
and had never heard of any prize poem, 
except perhaps ** See-saw, Margery Daw," 
or she might have seen that Charles Bol- 
sover, of St. Boniface, was the prize poet 
of the year. 

1 1 was later in the afternoon of that same 
summer's day, that the Dymond family, 
tempted out by the beauty of the weather, 
in company with numerous other families 
of the earth and the air and the water, 
might have been seen quietly walking by 
the field way towards Bolsover Hall. A 
message had come up from Aunt Fanny, 
stating that signs and tokens had arrived 
from the roving uncle, from the traveller 
— Peregrine Bolsover. These strange 
camphor-scented treasures used to appear 



from time to time, giving some clue to the 
donor's travels, wherealx>uts, and mode of 
existence. He hated writing and pre- 
ferred this means of communication with 
his friends. The colonel, who had busi- 
ness at Countyside and a dinner of county 
magnates at the Angel, meant to proceed 
thither by train after his visit to Dolsover, 
and the pony carriage had been ordered 
to fetch the ladies home at five o'clock. 
Poor Susy dreaded these teadrinkings at 
Bolsover, but she could not always escape 

Tempy was even more silent than usual, 
as she walked along the slope of the field, 
leading little Phrasie by the hand. At 
every step the child stooped to pick the 
heads of the delicate flowers that were 
sprinkling the turf with purple and white 
and golden dust. 

The colonel walked on with Susanna. 
The hour was full of exquisite peace and 
tranquillity, a summer distance of gold 
moors and lilac fells was heaping against 
the pale blue heavens. As they cross the 
Crowbeck meadows (they lead by a short 
cut to the garden of the Hall), the soft 
wind meets them blowing from across the 
lake and tossing the fragrance which still 
hangs from every hedge and bank and 
neighboring cottage porch into their 
faces ; white roses in sweet clusters, lilies 
from adjacent cottage gardens scent the 
highways; a little stream dashes across, 
watering the green meadows on either 
side, and Phrasie laughing and chatter- 
ing is lifted over. The June fields are 
sumptuous with flowers and splendid 
weeds. Foxgloves stand in stately pha- 
lanx, full beds of meadow-sweet are wav- 
ing, the blue heads of the forget-me-not 
cover the water's edge. A broad plank 
crosses the bubbling rivulet, and leads to 
the upslope and to the Bolsover farm be- 
yond, where the cows are browsing or 
looking over the low walls that enclose 
their boundaries; a colony of ducks 
comes down to the water from under the 
farm gate, waddling, with beautiful white 

**Dook, dook, pity 'itty quack-quacks, 
papa, dook," cries Phrasie, setting o£f 
after her parents ; and the colonel stops 
and looks at ducks with an interest he has 
not felt for half a centurv, while Susy, 
smiling, stands gazing at her little blue- 
eyed naturalist. 

At Bolsover Hall Miss Phrasie was a 
no less important member of the family 
than at Crowbeck Place. The good-na- 
tured squire delighted in visits from the 
little creature. He used to waylay her as 

she was walking up the avenue to the 
[hall door, and bring her by the back way 
into his private room, where he used to 
detain her by many interesting and rap- 
idly following experiments — the click of 
pistols, red balls from the billiard table, 
whips, spurs, shiny noisy whirling objects 
of every possible description, until pres- 
ently Mrs. Bolsover would appear, fol- 
lowed by a couple of Aunt Fanny's dogs, 
with a ** Baby, baby, don't disturb your 
uncle ; " and then the fickle Phrasie, start- 
ing off in pursuit, would forget her uncle's 
past attentions, and leave him panting, 
but tidy as ever, to put by all the many 
charming objects he had produced for her 

It would be difficult to imagine any- 
thing less congruous than the squire and 
his favorite gun-room, where he spent so 
many peaceful hours. It might have 
seemed at first view a terrific apartment. 
A death's head and cross bones (stuck up 
by Charlie Bolsover) ornament the top of 
the old-fashioned clock. Along the fire- 
place nothing more terrible than a row of 
pipes' heads might be seen hanging from 
pegs, but everywhere upon the walls were 
murderous weapons shining in their 
places, revolvers, crossed foils and fenc- 
ing implements. A great curling sword, 
all over ornaments and flourishes, hung 
over the comfortable leather sofa cush- 
ions, where Uncle Bolsover loved to doze 
away the hours. The colonel had brought 
the sword back from India as a gift for 
the pacific little squire. 

Day after day Uncle Bolsover used to 
go peacefully on to sleep over his Times^ 
among all these trophies and ruthless 
weapons of destruction. There he lies 
to-day slumbering tranquilly, with a pair 
of boxing gloves hanging just over his 
round bald head ; the tranquillity, the 
soothing sunshine, all contribute to bis 
happy dreams. The squire has earned his 
repose. He has been all the morning un- 
packing the huge case which has come 
jogging up from the other side of the 
world, whence Peregrine Bolsover, having 
heard of Colonel Dymond's marriage, has 
despatched an extra crate full of travel- 
ler's gifts to his family at home. He had 
heard the news from his sister Fanny, 
whose flowing streams of correspondence 
contrived to reach the wanderer even in 
those distant countries which he fre- 
quented, countries so far away, so little 
known, that it seemed as if they had been 
expressly created for bis use. The gifts 
are of a generous, inconvenient, and semi- 
barbarous character; elephants* tusks, 



rude strings of teeth, and gold beads for 
the bride ; carved ostrich eggs for the 
colonel; a priceless bamboo strung with 
the spine bones of some royal dynasty for 
Mrs. Bolsover ; various daggers wrapped 
in rough paper, and marked ^^ poison — 
very dangerouSy^ for the squire ; a Span- 
ish leather saddle all embroidered for 
Charlie, besides several gods of various 
religions and degrees of hideousness. 
Gratitude, natural bewilderment, and 
hopeless confusion raise up mixed emo- 
tions in the family on receiving these 
tokens of their absent member's affection. 
The squire having conscientiously un- 
packed the chest, ranged the various ob- 
jects round the room, and put the daggers 
safely in the cupboard out of the way, 
feels that he has earned his afternoon's 
siesta. As he sleeps the door opens 
gently, and a pale, handsome young man 
comes in quietly. By his rings, by his 
black curls, by his shiny shoes and red 
silk stockings, it is easy to recognize 
Charlie Bolsover restored to his usual 
health and spirits, and profiting by his 
oewly gained honors and by the first days 
of bis long vacation to come off uninvited, 
and even under prohibition, to the place 
where he is always returning in spirit. 

•* Good heavens ! Charlie," says Uncle 
Bolsover, waking up with a start. 

** Aunt Fanny sent me in to wake you 
up. Uncle Bol," said Charlie, with a smile. 
** She says I may stay." 


The colonel and his wife had been met 
at the door, and told that the ladies were 
at tea in the garden ; and without enter- 
ing the house or visiting the gun-room on 
their way, they passed by the side gate 
that led to the velvet lawns, so greenly 
spread beneath the shade of those old 
trees which have always seemed to me the 
rightful owners of Bolsover Hall. The 
tea-table stood under a cedar which had 
sheltered three or four generations of Bol- 
sovers in turn, and which had seen grand- 
parents and parents at play before Fanny 
Bolsover and her sisterand her brothers 
bad grown up from children. The eldest 
of the generation, Tempy's mother, the 
first Tempy, who married little Jackv Dy- 
mond, as the colonel was once callecf, was 
long since dead, and so was Charles, the 
youngest brother, the father of the present 
Charles. Peregrine, who came next to 
the squire, and who once climbed to the 
rook's nest on the upper boughs of the 


tallest cedar, was far away, and had re- 
turned no more to the old place. And the 
brilliant Fanny, the lovely spoiled girl 
who once thought all mankind, all life was 
at her feet — was this what she had come 
to, this garish, affected woman, with her 
disappointed ambitions, her limited imagi- 
nations, her ostentatious cleverness, and 
dominating will. As for the good squire, 
in all his sixty years he has scarcely ever 
travelled beyond the shadow of his old 
trees, nor changed in heart since he first 
came out at the head of the brotherhood, 
to play hide and seek upon the lawn. 

Miss Bolsover advanced to meet the 
little party — Susanna and Tempy, and 
Phrasie, running ahead, and Jacky Dy- 
mond, now sobered, silvered, settled, and 
no more like the youth she could remem- 
ber than she resembled the Fanny of forty 
years ago. Aunt Fanny was unusually 
gracious (so it seemed to Susy). She sent 
the servant for a low table and a baby- 
chair for Phraisie; she insisted on their 
remaining to tea; she stirred and mixed 
milk and water, and divided sponge cakes 
and strawberries and cream with extra 
alacrity ; she would not hear of the colo- 
nel going into the house to look for the 

** We will leave poor Frederick to have 
his nap out," says Miss Bolsover; 
•* plenty of time, John, to see the presents. 
Do let us enjoy this lovely afternoon in 
peace ! It is so good of poor dear Pere- 
grine; but I can't conceive what we are 
to do with all the eggs he sends home. 
Do look at,that lovely effect of light upon 
the lake, Susanna! What time is your 
train to Countyside, John? Shall you 
call in on your way back ? I hear Lord 
Neighborton is expected to speak. Poor 
you, you will have to propose his health. 
Little mademoiselle, where are you going 
to ? " in a high, staccato voice. ** Do keep 
the child quietly here and amused, Tempy, 
dear. More strawberries, anybody ? Ah ! 
here comes Car from the schools. Well, 
Car, tired? What news? When is this 
terrible inspector to come?" 

And Aunt Car wearily sinks down upon 
a chair, not without a benevolent iron grin 
of welcome to Phrasie, who runs straight 
up to her and climbs upon her knee and 
begins at once to pop strawberries into 
her mouth. 

Miss Bolsover, for some reason or 
other, seemed absolutely determined that 
no one should move from the tea-table. 

"Well! have you seen the presents, 
Phrasie? " Mrs. Bolsover was beginning. 

** Car, Car, don't talk of poor dear Pere- 



griae*s horrors just yet!" cries Aunt 
Fanuy. '* You know they are always the 
same — claws, and teeth, and fusty bison- 
skins," and as she spoke the stable clock, 
soft and clear and deliberate, came to 
their ears, striking the three-quarters. 

"A quarter to six," says the colonel. 

" Car," says Miss Bolsover, " the man 
was here this morning, he says the clock 
is some minutes slow." 

'Mt is all right by my watch," said the 
colonel, looking down at his gold re- 

" I nearly missed my train yesterday," 
Miss Bolsover remarked, absently stirring 
her tea; **but most likely — of course 
your watch is right, John." 

However, to the punctual colonel this 
most likely was not to be endured. 

**1'11 make sure of my train, anyhow," 
says he, getting up leisurely. **Phrasie, 
will you give papa a kiss? Good-bye, 
Susy; expect me after dinner. Car, tell 
Bolsover I'll look in on my way home." 

As the colonel was walking off across 
the grass on his way to the station the 
figures of Mr. Bolsover himself and an- 
other person might have been seen at the 
drawing-room window, where the squire 
stood trying to undo the hasp. Aunt 
Fanny, who had eyes everywhere, caught 
sight of the two, for she suddenly seized 
little scared Phrasie up in playful arms 
and went flying, and rustling, and panting 
across the lawn towards the house in lime 
to meet her brother-in-law face to face on 
the step. 

" Here is our dear little Fayfay come 
to see Uncle Fred and all the pitty tings," 
says Miss Bolsover playfully, thrusting 
the child into her brother's arms. " Don't 
come out, Charlie boy, I want to speak to 
you, dear, most particularly. Come into 
my boudoir. Frederick, will you take the 
child into the gun-room? Auntie will 
come for her directly." 

Presently a servant came out from the 
house with a message to Tempy under 
the tree. Miss 'Bolsover wanted to speak 
to her. Then Miss Bolsover herself re- 
turned again, leading little Phrasie by the 

** Tempy is delighted with the eggs and 
things," says Aunt Fanny to Aunt Car. 
Then to Susanna, who was preparing to 
come into the house, ** I brought the little 
one back. I don't know if you are at all 
afraid of keeping her out too late, Su- 
sanna; I myself know nothing about it," 
says Miss Bolsover, with her merry tinkle 
of earrings and laughter; **but if you 
would like to go we will send Tempy 

home in the T-cart and be glad to keep her 
a little longer." 

** Tempy said she wanted to get back 
early," Susanna answered quite unsuspi- 

** Oh I we will see to that," cried Aunt 
Fanny, affectionately conducting Mrs. Dy- 
mond to the side gate where the pony 
carriage was standing. ** Dear me, you 
have never seen your beads after all, nor 
the scalps either. 1*11 send them back to 
you by Tempy." 

Then Susy nodded and smiled and 
waved good-bye to Mrs. Bolsover, and 
was more than absorbed in making her 
little Phrasie kiss her hand and say good- 
bye too. Phrasie behaved beautifully 
and did all that was expected of her, and 
chattered all the way home on her moth- 
er's knee. 

*' Nice gentypan in dere, mamma," said 
little Phrasie as they drove off. "Genty- 
pan kissed Fayfay." 

Susy did not quite understand what 
Phraisie meant. 

"No, dear," she said, "there was no 
gentleman only papa." 

" Ozzer ones," said Phrasie, persisting. 

Susy waited dinner, but no Tempy came 
home, and Mrs. Dymond finished her 
meal by herself. All the bright, dazzling 
hours of the day seemed passing before 
her still, shining, crowding with light and 
life — with Phrasie's busy little life most 
of all. Susy went up-stairs on her way to 
her own room, and stood for a few min- 
utes by Phrasie's little crib, where all the 
pretty capers and sweet prattle and joy 
and wonder lay in a soft heap, among the 
pillows. The child's peaceful head lay 
with a warm fiush, and with tranquil, rest- 
ing breath ; the little hand hung over the 
quilt, half dropping a toy, some goggle- 
eyed, wide-awake dolly, staring hard, and 
with loops of tow and gilt ornaments, and 
not unlike Miss Bolsover herself, Susy 

For once Mrs. Dymond had also en- 
joyed her visit to Bolsover Hall. Aunt 
Fanny had been gracious. She had spared 
those thrusts which used to sting, for all 
Susy's calm imperturbability. As for Mrs. 
Bolsover, Susy had learned to be less and 
less afraid of her grim advances. Little 
Fayfay, asleep or awake, was an ever- 
growing bond between the two women. 
Susy had brought Fayfay down from the 
upper floor, and she had now only to 
cross a passage from the nursery to reach 
her own sitting-room, where she found a 
j^reen lamp burning and a fire burning. 
Even in summer time they used to light 



fires at Crowbeck after the sun was set. 
She had no other company than that of 
Zillah lying asleep by the hearth, but she 
wanted none other. She settled herself 
comfortably in her sofa corner, where the 
lamp shed its pleasant light, and after 
writing a long, rambling pencil letter to 
her mother, Susy took up a novel and read 
assiduously for a time. Then she closed 
the book. Her little Phrasie's eyes and 
looks, and her button of a nose, and her 
fanny, sweet sayings, seemed to come 
between her mother and the print. What 
chance has a poor author with such a 
rival ? *' Funny gentypan," who could 
Phrasie mean by "funny gentypan "? her 
mother wondered. Then suddenly, as the 
baby herself might have done, Susanna, 
happy, thankful, resting, and at ease, 
dropped off into a sleep, sound and long 
and deep as these illicit slumbers are apt 
to be. I do not know how long her 
dreams had lasted; the nurse looked in, 
and not liking to disturb her went off to 
bed. The clock struck ten and the half- 
hour, and suddenly Mrs. Dymond started 
up, wide awake ; she thought she had 
beard a sound and her own name called, 
and she answered as she sat up on the 
couch, bewildered. Was it her husband's 
voice? Was it Marney come home? 
Where was her mother ? Susy rubbed her 
eyes. All seemed silent again, but she 
bad been startled, and looking at the 
clock she flushed up, ashamed of the long 
nap. Then she crossed the room to the 
bell and rang it, but no one came, for the 
maids had gone to bed and the men were 
in a different part of the house. I don't 
know what nervous terror suddenly seized 
ber, but as she listened still, she grew 
more frightened. Then she thought of 
calling the nurse, and looked into the 
nursery again for that purpose, but gain- 
ing courage from the calm night-light and 
the peaceful cradle, she came quietly 
away; only, as she crossed the passage, 
she now distinctly heard a low, continu- 
ous murmur of voices going on in some 
room not far distant. Then Susy reflected 
that housebreakers do not start long audi- 
ble conversations in the dead of night, 
and summoning up courage, she descended 
the broad flight of stairs which led to the 
sitting-rooms below; the voices were not 
loud, but every now and then the tones 
rose in the silence. As she came to the 
half-open drawing-room door (it was just 
under her dressing-room) she heard a 
man's voice speaking in eager tones, and 
then the color rushed up into her face, 
and once more her heart began to beat, 

for she seemed to recognize Tempy's low 
answer. She opened the door. There 
stood Charlie, who seemed to be destined 
to disturb the slumbers of his family. 
There stood Tempy beside him, in the 
glow of the dying embers — the two sadly, 
happily miserable, and yet together ! Susy 
couid see poor Tempy's tears glistening 
in the red firelight, and Charlie's rings 
and decorations, as they stood holding 
each other's hands in parting grief. 

Mrs. Dymond came in like a beautiful 
fate, in her long white dress floating 
sternly across the room. She set her 
light upon the table. 

" Tempy ! " she said. " Oh ! Tempy, I 
could not have believed it of you. And 
how can you come," Susanna said, turn- 
ing to Charlie Bolsover, " how dare you 
come," she repeated, " disturbing us, troub- 
ling us with your presence? Tempy has 
promised — has promised not to see you," 
she went on excitedly. " Why don't you 
keep away? Do you not know that all 
our home peace and happiness depend 
upon your absence? You are not, you 
will never be, her husband. Do you want 
to part her forever from her father ? " cried 
Susy passionately. '* As for you, Tempy, 
I thought I could have trusted you as I 
trust myself. Was this why you stayed 
behind, why you deceived me? " 

Susy might have been kinder, she might 
have sympathized more, but that her own 
youth had taught her so sad, so desperate 
a lesson ; and comfortable dibonnair vices, 
easy-going misdeeds and insincerities, 
seemed to her worse and more terrible 
than the bitterest and most cutting truths, 
the sternest, baldest realities. That 
Tempy should deceive her, deceive her 
father, should be seeing Charlie by secret 
arrangement, seemed to Susy unworthy 
of them all. 

Charlie turned round upon her in a 
sudden fury. Where was his usual placid 
indifference now? 

** If you knew what you were saying, 
if you had ever been in love," he said in a 
rage, speaking bitterly, indignantly, "you 
would not be so cruel to her, Mrs. Dy- 
mond. You part us for no reason but 
your husband's fancy, and you divide us 
as if we were two sacks of potatoes — 
* Go,' you say, * forget each other.' You 
don't know what you say. You might as 
well say, * Do not exist at all,' as tell us 
not to love each other. It may be easy 
enough for people who marry not for love 
but for money, or because they want com- 
fortable homes or housekeepers, to part, 




"Oh, for shame, for shame, Charlie," 
cried Tempy, startincr away and pulling 
her hand from her lover. 

''Let him speak, it is best so," said 
Susanna very stern, and pale, and uncom- 
promisinof. '' He has a right to speak." 

** I speak because I feel, while you all 
seem to me stones and stocks," cried the 
poor fellow. " I speak because I love 
Tempy with all my heart, and you are 
condemning her and condemning me 
unheard to sorrow and lifelong separa- 

There was something, some utter truth 
of reality in the young man's voice, some- 
thing which haunted Susanna long after. 
This sharp scene had come upon her sud- 
denly, unexpectedly, but not for the first 
time did she feel uneasy, impatient with 
her husband. 

A sudden indignant protest rose in her 
heart ; for the first time since her marriage 
she questioned and denied his infallibility. 
It might be true that Charlie Bolsover 
had been foolish, true that he was in debt, 
true that Tempy was rich and young, but 
was it not also true that these two people 
were tenderly, faithfully attached to each 
other? It seemed a terrible responsibil- 
ity for the father to divide them; abso- 
lutely to say, ** Death to their love, let it 
be as nothing, let it cease forever." Susy 
thought of the boy's sad, wild looks as he 
rushed past her in the passage of Eider- 
down's Hotel. 

She looked at him again. He was 
changed somehow; he looked older, 
stronger, angrier, less desperate, more of 
a man. He stood fronting Tempy, not 
with the air of one who was ashamed and 
out of place, but as if he had a right to 
speak. Susy, Rhadamantine though she 
was, covered her face with her two hands 
for a minute. She could not meet the 
young fellow's reproachful look. It 
seemed to her that it had all happened 
before, that she had known it all along, 
known it from the beginning, even when 
Charlie, exasperated, turned from her to 
Tempy, saying, — 

** Tempy, 1 can*t bear this any longer, 
you must decide between us. Send me 
away, if you have the heart to send me 

Still Susy seemed to know it all, to 
know that Tempy would say, ** I shall 
never give you up, Charlie, all my life; 
but I cannot go against my father's cruel 

The sound of wheels, of a horse's hoofs 
stopping at the front door, brought the 
situation to a crisis. 

"Listen! That mast be papa," said 
Tempy, starting forward. " Go, Charlie, 
go! there is still time! You must not 
meet him ! " and she, all in tears, took his 
hand into both hers, and would have 
dragged him to the window through which 
they had entered together. 

" Go ! Why should I go ? " cried Char- 
lie exasperated, holding his ground. " I 
am not ashamed of being here," and as 
he spoke Susy heard the hall door open. 

** He is right, Tempy," she cried, with 
a bright look, and then with a sudden im- 
pulse Susanna ran to the dining-room 
door, threw it open, and called her hus- 
band by his name as he came into his 

"John! come here! Charles Bolsover 
is here," said Susy, standing in the din- 
ing-room door. 

Then she saw that her husband was 
looking very pale. Instead of coming up 
to her he stood by the staircase holdine 
to the bannister. He looked very ola 
suddenly, quite different somehow. 

" I know Charles Bolsover is here," he 
said, looking hard at his wife. "I heard 
it just now before you told me. Tell him 
I will not see him. Tell him and Tempy 
to carry on their plots elsewhere. You, 
Susy, I can trust, thank God." 

"Dear John, what is it?" Susy cried, 
running up to him. "Tempy, Tempy, 
come to your father! Come and tell him 
he can trust us all ! " Susy cried in despair 
at her husband's strange manner and 
looks, and Tempy, hearing Susy's voice 
also, came out with her round face still 
bathed in tears. 

"Oh ! papa, what is it?" she said gen- 
tly. " 1 didn't know Charlie was to be at 
the Hall. Indeed, indeed, I didn't, though 
perhaps if I had, I could not have kept 
away. I hadn't seen him for, oh, so long; 
he walked back with me just now, that is 
all ! Are you very angry ? " 

The poor colonel's face altered, changed, 
softened, the color seemed to come back 
into his lips. 

" I am not angry with you, my poor 
child," he said, ancl be sighed, and held 
out his hand. Tempy felt that it was 
cold like stone. "I am tired; another 
time I will speak to you. I cannot see 
him. I thought — I thought you were all 
trying to deceive me," he repeated, with 
an attempt at a smile. 

Tempy watched him step by step till he 
turned the corner of the staircase, still 
holding by the bannisters. Long, long 
afterwards she seemed to see him climb- 
ing slowly and passing on. 





Susanna was not happy about her hus- 
band next moroiug. He seemed unlike 
himself; though he said he was well, he 
looked dull and out of spirits. Teropy*s 
heart, too, was very heavy, and she hung 
her head over her sewing, setting one 
weary stitch after another as women do. 
Charlie was gone, she knew not when she 
should see him again ; and her father was 
there, and yet gone too in a way. She 
could not bear him to be so gentle, so 
reserved, so absent in his manner; she 
was longing for an explanation with him, 
longing to speak and yet scarcelv knowing 
bow to begin. When the play oi life turns 
to earnest, how strangely one*s youthful 
valiance fails — that courage of the young, 
armed from head to foot with confident 
inexperience of failure and with hope all 
aodimmed as yet! 

The colonel was busy all the morning, 
and closeted in his study with the bailiff. 
He came into Susy's room once or twice, 
where she was sitting with Tempy, and 
with little Phrasie playing at her knee. 
Phrasie was the one cheerful, natural per- 
son in the house this gloomy morning. 
The colonel's silence did not silence her. 
Tempy's depression seemed to vanish 
suddenly when the child came tumbling 
across the room from her mother's knee ; 
Tempy's black looks (so curiously like 
her father's) turned into some faint sem- 
blance of a smile as the little sister tugged 
at her dress to make her play. 

Susy had left the room when little 
Fayfay, perching at the window, suddenly 
began to exclaim something about *'papa 
and his gee-gee," and Tempy, who had 
hoped that the moment for explanation 
had come, found that her father was start- 
ing for his morning ride, and now expla- 
Datioo must be again deferred. The ex- 
planation was not then, but it was very 
near at hand. 

Presently Susy looked into the room, 
with her straw hat on. ** Your father is 
gone to Ambleside. He has ordered 
James to meet him there at the station 
with the dog-cart; they will bring Josselin 
home. Won't you come out now, Tempy ? 
It will do you good ; or will you come with 
me to Miss Fletcher's after luncheon? " 

But Tempy shook her head. She would 
Dot come, neither then nor later. She 
sat stitching away the morning, moping 
through the hours in a dreary, unsatisfac- 
tory sort of way. Susanna hoped that 
Josselin's return might cheer her up. 

** What did papa say to you last night ? *' 
Tempy suddenly asked, when she saw 
Susy getting up after luncheon to prepare 
for her walk. 

" He said that he was glad that we had 
hidden nothing from him — that we had 
told him Charlie was here. He said he 
liked to feel that he could trust us," Su- 
sanna answered, and as she spoke she 
seemed to see her husband's kind face 
and his outstretched hand again. 

"Trust us, trust youP^ said Tempy. 
"Did Aunt Fanny tell him Charlie was 
here ? " 

" No," said Susy, blushing up. " It was 
Aunt Car who told him, she had gone to 
bed when your father reached the Hall. 
She came out of her room in her dressing- 
gown, hearing his voice. Miss Bolsover 
assured your father it was I who had ar- 
ranged it all," Susy went on ; and as she 
spoke two indignant tears flashed into her 

"Don't! don't! don't!" cried poor 
Tempy. "My aunt knows how unhappy 
I am," and she turned and ran out of the 

Susy, solitary, was glad to meet Wilkins 
and her little Phrasie at the garden gate 
that afternoon. She was starting for her 
walk before the travellers' return. Phra- 
sie was armed cap-dpU and helmed in 
quilted white and starch as a baby should 
be who is meant to defy the sun. She had 
picked a bunch of flowers, and was hop- 
ping along the path, and chattering as she 
went something about " De pussy and de 
kitty is in de darden, and de kitty is eaten 
de petty flowers, and please, mamma, take 
'itlle Fayfay wid dou." 

" I should like her to come with me, 
Wilkins," said Mrs. Dymond. " I am 
going to call at the Miss Fletchers'." 

" Oh ! very well, mem," says Wilkins, 
resigned. She prefers her own company 
to respectful attendance upon her mis- 
tress, but she is a good creature, and 
allows Susy to see a great deal of Phrasie. 
Perhaps the thought of Miss Fanny's va- 
rious paragons hanging by hairs over her 
head inclines Wilkins to regard her mis- 
tress's failings with leniency. Susy felt 
so sad and so much depressed that it was 
a real boon and comfort to be led along 
by the little one and to feel her warm 
hand in her own. Phrasie was sturdy on 
her legs, and thought nothing of the ex- 

Their walk ran high up above the road- 
side, along a bank cut in the shelving 
slopes, and shaded by big trees, of which - 
the stems were wreathed and wrapped 



with ivy leaves. Beneath each natural 
arch formed by the spread of the great 
branches, lay a most lovely and placid 
world of cool waters and gentle mountain 
mist, of valleys full of peaceful, browsing 
sheep. A strange cloud hung along the 
crest of the Old Man flashing with light. 
Susanna remembered it long afterwards ; 
every minute of that day seemed stamped 
and marked upon her mind. Phrasie 
went first, still chattering to her mamma, 
who followed quietly, looking out at the 
tranquil prospect ; then came Wilkins. 
Once the nurse stopped short, and Susy, 
who had walked a little ahead, called to 

** I thought there was a something on 
the other side of the lake, mem,*' says 
Wilkins. "There's a boat and a crowd." 

Susy stopped, looked, moved on again 
after an instant's pause. " I cannot see 
clearly across the lake," she said; "but 
the rain is coming, we must not be long," 
and she went on her way, s:ill holding 
Phrasie's warm little hand. The Fletch- 
ers lived in a stone, slated cottage high 
up on the mountain-side; it was homely 
enough, scanty, but exquisitely clean and 
in perfect order. The little garden, en- 
closed by its stone walls, flashed lilac, 
gold, and crimson with the cottage flow- 
ers that were all ablaze — convolvulus, 
phloxes, sweet-william, and nasturtium, 
opening to the raindrops that were already 
beginning to fall. 

Martha Fletcher, the younger sister who 
kept the school, was standing out in the 
porch as her visitors arrived somewhat 
breathless with their climb; and she came 
forward to welcome them with her smil- 
ing, peaceful looks and voice, and, calling 
to her sister, opened the cottage door and 
showed them in. There were two rooms 
on the ground floor, leading from one to 
another — pleasant rooms, scantily fur- 
nished, with slated floors and lattice win- 
dows and cross lights, and a few geraniums 
in pots; they both opened to the garden. 
The first was a sort of kitchen, with a 
kettle boiling on the hob ; the second was 
a parlor, with a few wooden chairs, an oak 
chest, and a quaint old cupboard that 
would have macfe the fortune of a collector. 
"It is old; it were never very much," 
said Martha. In front of the cupboard, 
Jane, the elder sister, was lying back in 
her big chair knitting, with a patchwork 
cushion at her back. She looked pale 
and worn by ill health, but she, too, 
brightened to welcome their visitors. Both 
\hese sisters had the calm and well-bred 
manners of people who live at peace, in 

the good company of great and lovely 
things. Susy herself had not such easy 
and dignified greetings for her guests, 
such kindness and unspoken courtesy in 
her ways, as that with which these two 
women now met her. 

Mrs. Dymond had come only intending 
to remain a few minutes, but from behind 
the Old Man some sudden storm began to 
spread, and in a few minutes, swiftly, rap- 
idly, the clouds had gathered, and the rain 
had begun to pour very heavily all round 

Perhaps half an hour went by — a 
strange half-hour, which ever afterwards 
Susy looked back to with a feeling half of 
longing, half of miserable regret. It 
seemed to her as if some other Susanna 
had lived it, with its troubled apprehen- 
sions, with a heart full of pain, of dull 
excitement. She could not bear to dis- 
agree with her husband, but the sight of 
Tempy's dull pain stung her. So long as 
it had been her own self in question, she 
had felt no disloyalty in suppressing her 
own wishes, crushing down the instinctive 
protest in her heart against the family 
thraldom and traditional subjection to 
conventionality. But now that Tempy's 
happiness and honesty of mind were con- 
cerned, it seemed to Susy that the time 
had come to speak. Ah ! John who was 
so good, so gentle and forbearing, he 
would understand her, he would yield to 
her entreaties, to Tempy's pleading. 

Susy sat paying her visit in a curious, 
double state of mind. The rain had 
ceased, the cottage garden was refreshed ; 
the phloxes, the zinnias, the lupins, the 
marigolds, the whole array of cottage finery 
was refreshed and heavy with wet. The 
birds had begun to fly and chirp again ; 
little Phrasie stood at the door, peeping 
out at an adventurous kitten which was 
cautiously advancing along the wooden 
bench. Martha sat erect on the well- 
rubbed mahogany settle, Jane lay back in 
her big chair with an invalid's gentle eyes 
full of interest, fixed on their young vis- 

" How comely Mrs. Dymond du look," 
thinks Jane the fanciful, " there side-by- 
side wi' Martha on the settle." 

Mrs. Dymond, dressed in some soft 
brown pelisse with a touch of color in it, 
her loose country gloves, her lace ruffles, 
her coquettish brown felt hat with the 
shining bird's breast, all seemed to make 
up a pleasant autumnal picture, even 
more interesting to Jane than that baby 
one in the doorway. After all, a tidy, 
well-dressed child is no prettier an object 



than any one of the little ones bare-legged 
and rosy and tattered, such as those Jane 
and Martha were used to teach and have 
ap to play in the garden. But a well* 
dressed, beautiful lady is an interesting 
sight to a country woman. Martha from 
habit, perhaps, kept watch over Phrasie, 
but Jane's eyes rested gently upon the 
young mother. 

Susy lingered on. There was a sense 
of peace within as without the cottage, a 
feeling of goodness, of quiet duty fulfilled, 
and unpretending refinement. A thought 
crossed her mind, what a happy life she 
might have led if only these women could 
have been her sisters — true ladies in- 
deed they seemed to be — tranquil, courte- 
ous in their ways, making no difference 
between persons, as gentle and as wel- 
coming to the shepherd's wife, who came 
drenched to the door in her clogs, to re- 
port of Mrs. Barrow, as to Susy herself, 
the lady of the place. While the neigh- 
bors talked on, Susy, girl-like, began to 
picture a life with John, in a pleasant cot- 
tage with a garden full of flowers. She 
seemed putting off the moment of return 
and explanation, and trying to think of 
other things. Susy dreaded going home, 
dreaded the explanation before her, 
dreaded the pain she must give her hus- 
band if she told him all she felt, and that 
his decision seemed to her unjust and 
arbitrary ; dreaded the concealment if she 
' bid the truth. Some instinct seemed to 
tell her that Miss Bolsover, whatever 
happened, would make ill-will between 
them all, and that trouble was at hand ; 
and yet the heavy, indefinable sense which 
had haunted her all the morning, was 
lighter since she had reached that peace* 
ful home, and seen the simple' and com- 
forting sight of two contented souls. 

These fancies did not take long, a little 
ray of light came straggling by the lattice. 
Phrasie leaped and laughed in the door- 
way at the kitten's antics ; suddenly the 
child came running back to her mother's 
knee, and hid her face in her lap and be- 
gan to cry. 

^ My Phrasie, what is it? "said Susy, 
stooping and lifting her up. " Did the 
kitty scratch you ? " but little Phrasie 
didn't answer at first, then looking up into 
her mother's face, — 

** Papa, Fayfay wants papa," was all she 

** I think papa must be home by this," 
said Susy, going to the door with the child 
in her arms; and she felt that with 
Phrasie in her arms she could speak, 
protest for Tempy's future rights. She 

could trust that kind and generous heart 
which had ever been so true to her, to 
them all. The rain was gathering again; 
the sisters urged her to stay, but she was 
impatient — suddenly impatient — to get 
back. A feeling which seemed strange, 
indescribable, outside everyday things and 
common feelings, had fallen on her once 
more; was it the storm in the air? As 
she looked at the opposite hills, she felt 
as if the very line of the clouds against the 
sky had terror in it. No tangible impres- 
sion was in her mind, but a restless alarm 
and discomfort. Susy wondered if she 
was going to be ill, though she was not 
given to fancies; her one desire was to 
get home, and she took leave, hastily 
gathering up her skirts with Wilkins's 
help, tucking Phrasie safe into the folds 
of her pelisse. Jane and Martha looked 
gravely at her, and did not attempt to de- 
tain her. ** Take care of ye'sell," they 
said. Martha came with them to the gar- 
den gate, and stood holding it open, and as 
they were starting, they heard a step hur- 
rying up from below. It was one of the 
grooms from the Place, who, not seeing 
Susy, exclaimed, — 

"Oh! Miss Fletcher, have you heard 
that there's been a' accident across the 
lake? The colonel and Mr. Jo have been 
cast out of t' dog-cart. I'm seeking Mrs. 

** An accident ! " said Susy, coming for- 
ward, holding Phrasie very tight. ** Are 
they hurt, James ? Is the colonel " 

"Neither o' the gentlemen had spoke 
when I came away to seek ye, mem," said 
the man, with a pale face, and some won- 
der at seeing her so composed. " George 
Tyson brought them across in t' boat wi' 
doctor; the parson is there wi' Miss Bol- 
sover. We have been looking for you, 
ma'am, a long while." 


The train came in in the early morn- 
ing, and the great London doctor got out; 
he had travelled all night comfortably 
enough in his first-class corner; he was 
there to see what could be done ; he had 
a confident, cheerful aspect, which gave 
hope to the bystanders. The porter be- 
gan to think the colonel might recover 
after all ; the station-master also seemed 
to regain confidence. Mr. Bolsover, who 
had come to meet the train, and who liked 
to take things pleasantly, shook the oracle 
warmly by the hand. "I'm afraid you 
will find things as bad as can be," he said, 



as if be was giving a welcome piece of 
news, though his pale round face belied 
bis cheery tones. ** Jeffries has been up 
all night. I have brought the carriage for 
you. We telegraphed to you last night 
when Jeffries thought so badly of him, 
poor fellow. Get in, please ; drive hard, 

** Is Mrs. Dymond aware of the dan- 
ger?'' said the doctor, as he got into the 
carriage, after seeing that his bag was 
safely stowed on the box. 

** She is anxious, very anxious," said 
Mr. Bolsover ; ** so are my wife and sister, 
who are nursing them all most devotedly. 
You know the boy is hurt too; broken 
rib — concussion. They were driving 
home together; they think poor Dymond 
fainted and fell, the horse was startled, the 
carriage upset just by the forge. Luckily 
one of Dymond's own men was standing 
by ; the poor fellows were brought straight 
home across the lake in the ferry-boat. 
Mrs. Dymond was from home at the time. 
The boy recovered consciousness almost 
immediately, but my poor brother-in-law 
seems very ill, very bad indeed," said Mr. 
Bolsover, with an odd chirruping quake in 
his voice ; then recovering and trying to 
quiet himself. *' Do you dislike this?" 
and he pulled a cigar-case out of his 

** Not at all — not at all," said the doc- 
tor, looking out of the window. " What a 
delightful place you have here 1 " 

"It is almost all my brother-in-law's 
property," said Mr. Bolsover; "all en- 
tailed upon my nephew. We married 
sisters, you know." 

"Oh. indeed!" said the doctor. "I 
did not know." 

" I was not speaking of the present 
Mrs. Dymond," says Mr. Bolsover has- 
tily. "The second wife is quite a girl; 
some of us thought it a pity at the time. 
Poor child, it will be easier for her now, 
perhaps, than if they had been longer 

The horses hurried on, the gates were 
reached, the neat sweep, the pleasant 
shade of trees; the doors of the house 
flew open, and the servants appeared, as 
on that day when the colonel had brought 
Susy home as a bride. The doctor was 
shown into the colonel's study, where a 
fire had been lighted and some breakfast 
set out. The master was lying scarcely 
conscious on his bed up-stairs, but his 
daily life seemed still to go on in the room 
below. The whips and sticks were neatly 
stacked against the walls, his sword was 
slung up, his belt, his military cap, every- 

thing curiously tidy and well-ordered. 
The Army List and Directory, the Brad- 
shaws and Whitaker, were each in their 
due place on the table in a sort of pat- 
tern. The bookcases were filled, and 
every shelf was complete; the writing 
apparatus was in order, with good pens 
and fresh ink, for Dr. Mayfair to write 
the prescriptions with. They could do 
little good now, for all the good pens and 
paper. The neat packets of letters, an- 
swered and unanswered, with broad, elas- 
tic straps, lay on the right and left of the 
writing-book ; the post bag was hanging 
on a nail, with a brass plate fixed above, 
on which the hours of the post were en- 
graved. Everything spoke of a leisurely, 
well ordered existence, from the shining 
spurs on their stands, to the keys in the 
despatch-box. The doctor had not long 
to wait ; the door opened, and a lady came 
in — a fat, florid lady, who seemed to have 
performed a hasty toilette, not without 
care. She was wrapped in a flowing, flow- 
ery tea-gown, a lace hood covered her 
many curls and plaits; she had gold slip- 
pers, emerald and turquoise rings; she 
advanced with many agitated motions. 

" Oh, doctor ! — oh, how we have looked 
for you! You may imagine what this 
night has been. How am I to tell you 
all ? A chair. Thank you. Yes, oh yes I 
— our darling boy scarcely conscious — 
his father in this most alarming condi- 
tion," and she laid her jewelled 6ngers on 
the doctor's sleeve. " Mr. Bolsover will 
have told you something, but //^ has no 
conception of what we have su£Eered, what 
anxiety we have endured. My brain 
seems crushed," said the lady. "If you 
felt my pulse, doctor, you would see that 
the heart*s action is scarcely perceptible." 

" You are very anxious, of course," said 
the doctor, rather perplexed, " shall 1 come 
up-stairs at once? Is Mr. Jeffries up- 
stairs ? " 

"He will be here in a minute, if you 
will kindly wait, and you must be wanting 
some refreshment," said the lady. " Dr. 
Mayfair, do you prefer tea or coffee? 
Here are both, as I ordered. One requires 
all one's nerve, all one's strength for the 
sad scene up-stairs — the strong man cast 
down in his prime — let me pour out the 

The doctor, somewhat bored by the 

lady's attentions, stood before the tire 

wailing for the arrival of Mr. Jeffries, and 

asking various details of the illness, of 

: the accident, to which his hostess gave 

I vague and agitated answers. *' 1 was rest 

j ing in my room before dressing to drive 



out, when my maid broaght me word of 
the dreadful report. I lost not a moment, 
I told them to bring me a cloak, a hat, 
anything, the first come, to order the car- 
riage, to send a messenger to say that I 
was on the way. But one has to pay for 
such efiforts, nature will not be defrauded 
of her rights. You, doctor, know that 
better than I do." 

'* Oh, of course, no, yes," says the doc- 
tor with a vacant eye drinking his tea and 
looking round; was this the enthusiastic 
young girl disapproved of by the poor 
colonePs relations I " Mr. Jeffries has 
been sent for, you tell me," said the great 
man, politely interrupting. 

*' I hear him now," said Miss Bolsover 
excitedly, and rushing to the door she 
opened it wide. ** Here, come in here, 
Doctor Mayfair is expecting you," said 
the lady in a loud whisper. " Oh, Mr. 
JefiFries, you can tell him what we have all 
endured, you can tell him what a lifelong 
tie it has been between us. How unlike 
that of a few short months; how much 
deeper, how much^— " Mr. Jeffries 
looked round uneasily, he was followed by 
Susanna, still strangely quiet, scarcely 
uttering a word, but with anxious, dark- 
encircled eyes trying to read from their 
faces what was written there. She heard 
Miss Bolsover*s speech, and crimsoned 
up as she turned a quick, reproachful 
glance upon her; even at such terrible 
moments people are themselves, alas ! 
and their daily failings do not die when 
those they love lie down for the last time, 
but assert themselves, bitter, exaggerated. 
To reproach her at such a time ! Oh, it 
was cruel, Susy thought, and then she 
forgot it all — Miss Bolsover's sneers, 
and the petty pangs and smarts of daily 
jealousies ; she caught sight of a glance 
which passed between Mr. Jeffries and 
Dr. Mayfair, and all her strength and 
courage seemed suddenly to go, and she 
sat down for a moment in the nearest 
chair, while Miss Bolsover followed the 
doctors out of the room. Susy herself 
bad no hope, Jeffries*s deprecating look 
answered her most anxious fears, she had 
watched all through the night and each 
hour as it passed seemed to weigh more 
heavily upon her heart. Now for a mo- 
ment the load seemed so great that she 
could scarcely bear it, she seemed sud- 
denly choking, and she opened the win- 
dow and went out into the open air to 
breathe. There — he was dying and all 
the garden was so sweet, so full of early 

freen and flowers. He was doomed, she 
new it, and a new day had dawned, and 

nothing was changed from yesterday ; only 
the beauty of it all seemed aching and 
stinging instead of delighting her, its very 
sweetness turned to grief, its peace jarred 
like misery, a great flash of brilliant pain 
seemed spread out before her. Why had 
they ever come there, Susanna thought. 
Oh, why ? How happy she had been alone 
with him in London I How unhappy she 
had been among these cruel people ! How 
dear and how kind he had been ; how 
little they knew her! All the spiteful 
things Miss Bolsover had ever said came 
into her mind with a passionate exaggera- 
tion. Ah ! she was not ungrateful, she 
was not mercenary, she had not married 
for money and mean things. Her hus- 
band had been her kindest, tenderest 
friend, he had helped her in her sorest 
trouble, and she had come to him grate- 
fully and with trust. And now all was 
over; and they would no longer molest 

Poor Susy wrung her hands in a miser- 
able impatience. She was a young crea- 
ture still, exaggerated and uncharitable, 
as young, warm-hearted people are. The 
lovely sweetness of the morning, the ten- 
der light upon the sky, only seemed to 
sting her to fresh pain. Then she thought 
of his dear, pale face upon the bed u|> 
stairs — of his look of wistful love with 
some sad terror of conviction. She had 
meant to speak to him that very day, to 
tell him all her heart, and now it was too 
late, it was over now. All was coming to 
an end forever, and she had not half loved 
him, half told him how she felt his good- 
ness. Reader, forgive her if she with the 
rest of us is selfish in her great grief, so 
keen, so fierce, distorting and maddening 
every passing mood and natural experi- 
ence. She could not stand. She fell on 
her knees, poor child, with a sudden over- 
powering burst of sobbing pain. There 
was an iron roller somewhere by the wall, 
and she laid her poor head upon the iron 
with incoherent sobs and prayers for his 
life, for strength to love him as she ought, 
for forgiveness for the secret rancor which 
had poisoned her life. As she knelt there 
two kind, warm arms were flung round 
her, ** Dear Susy, don't, don't," sobs 
Tempy, who had come to look for her, 
"don't, don't, don't," was all the girl 
could say ; ** be good, be brave, I've come 
to fetch you." Susy started up, quiet 
again, ruling herself with a great effort. 
Mr. Jeffries had also come down hurriedly 
into the drawing-room to look for her, and 
as the two women entered through the 
open casement, pale and shaking still, he 



looked very ^rave, and beckoned them 
up-stairs. ** He is come to himself, he is 
asking for you/' he said to Susy; "you 
must be very calm, dear Mrs. Dymond.'* 
Tempy was now sobbing in her turn, Susy 
was white, quiet, composed. Her hus- 
band knew her to the last, and looked up 
with a very sweet smile as she came to 
bis side. 

An hour afterwards she was a widow, 
and the grand London doctor went back 
to town. 

From The Contemporary Re^ew* 

The reg^ius professor of modern history 
at the University of Cambridge has so 
many claims upon the attention of all 
good men, and has such especial claims 
upon mine, that I feel a certain shyness 
in giving audible expression to views 
about history and history-writing which 
are not his. The undertaking, however, 
though desperate, is lawful, and may be 
conducted without offence. 

Ever since the printing-press of his 
university published Professor Seeley's 
work on Stein, his tone in referring to 
other historians has become severe, and 
he has spoken of them as if they were but 
unauthorized practitioners of the science 
of history, and as though their pleasant 
volumes were but plausible quackeries, all 
jelly and no powder. 

This view of things, after finding chance 
expression in .lectures and papers, has 
received more definite treatment in Pro- 
fessor Seeley's most recent and most op- 
portune book, which everybody has read, 
"The Expansion of England," which 
opens thus: "It is a favorite maxim of 
mine that history, while it should be sci- 
entific in its method, should pursue a 
practical object — that is, it should not 
merely gratify the reader's curiosity about 
the past, but modify his view of the pres- 
ent and his forecast of the future. Now, 
if this maxim be sound, the history of 
England ought to end with something 
that might be called a moral." 

This, it must be admitted, is a large 
order. The task of the historian, as here 
explained, is not merely to tell us the 
story of the past, and thus gratify our 
curiosity, but, pursuing a practical object, 
to seek to modify our views of the pres- 
ent and help us in our forecast of the fu- 
ture; and this the historian is to do, not 
unconsciously and incidentally, but delib- 

erately and of set purpose. One can well 
understand how history, so written, will 
usually begin with a maxim and invariably 
end with a moral. 

What we are told on p. i66 follows in 
logical sequence upon our first quotation 
— namely, that " history fades into mere 
literature (the italics are ours) when it 
loses sight of its relation to practical poli- 
tics." in this grim sentence we read the 
dethronement of Clio. The poor thing 
must forswear her father's house, her 
tuneful sisters, the invocation of the poet, 
the worship of the dramatist, and keep 
her terms at the university, where, if she 
is really studious and steady, and avoids 
literary companions (which ought not to 
be dimcult), she may hope some day to be 
received into the Royal Society as a sec* 
ond-rate science. The people who do not 
usually go to the Royal Society will miss 
their old playmate from her accustomed 
slopes, but, even were they to succeed in 
tracing her to her new home, access would 
be denied them; for Professor Seeley, 
that stern custodian, has his answer ready 
for all such seekers. "If you want rec- 
reation, you must find it in poetry, par- 
ticularly lyrical poetry. Try Shelley. We 
can no longer allow you to disport your- 
selves in the fields of history as if they 
were a mere playground. Clio is en- 

At present, however, this is not quite 
the case; for the old literary traditions 
are still alive, and prove somewhat irritat- 
ing to Professor Seeley, who, though one 
of the most even-tempered of writers, is 
to be found on p. 173 almost angry with 
Thackeray, a charming person, who, as 
we all know, bad, after his lazy, literary 
fashion, made an especial study of Queen 
Anne's time, and who cherished the pleas- 
ant fancy that a man might lie in the 
heather with a pipe in his mouth, and yet, 
if he had only an odd volume of "The 
Spectator " or " The Tatler " in his hand, 
be learning history all the time. " As we 
read in these delightful pages," says the 
author of " Esmond," " the past age re- 
turns; the England of our ancestors is 
revivified ; the Maypole rises in the 
Strand; the beaux are gathering in the 
coffeehouses;" and so on, in the style 
we all know and love so well, and none 
better, we may rest assured, than Pro- 
fessor Seeley himself, if only he were not 
tortured by the thought that people were 
taking this to be a specimen of the science 
of which he is a regius professor. His 
comment on this passage of Thackeray's 
is almost a groan. " What is this but the 



old literary groove, leading to no trust- 
worthy knowTedj^e?" and ccriaioly aoone 
of us, from lettio); his fancy gaze on the 
Maypole in the Strand, could ever have 
foretold tlie Griffin. On the same page 
be cries : '■ Break the drowsy spell of nar- 
rative. Ask yourself questiooa, set your- 
self problems; your miod will at once 
take up a new altitude. Now modern 
Eogltah history breaks up into two grand against o] 
problems — the problem of the colonies in clear, i 
and the problem of India." The Cam- scioua rel 
bridge School of History with a ven- "hole fuii 

In a paper read at the South Kensington 
Museum on the 4th of last August, Pro- jfiositvis endle 
fessor Seeley observes ; "The essential 'jj ^^ want 
point is this, that we should recognize 
that to study history is to study not merely 

A talent for history [I am quoting from an 
author whose style, let those mock at it who 
may, will reveal him] may be said 10 be born 
with lis as our chief inheritance. History has 
been written with quipo-th reads, with feather 
pictures, with wampum belts, siill oftener with 
canh-mounds and monumental stone-heaps, 
whether as pyramid or cairn, for the Celt and 
the Copt, the red man as well as the white, 
lives between two eternities, and warring 
against oblivion, he would fain unite himself 

nited with the 

; then 

To keep (he past alive for us is the 

ous function of the historian. Our cu- 

IS, his the task of gratifying; 

10 know what happened 

long ago, Performance of (his (ask is 

only proximately possible — bu( none the 

less it must be attempted, for the demand 

, „ 1. ' , . ■• for it is born afresh with every infant's 

s follows : political phil- „y_ „i„„,y ,, , p^g„„t ^^^j ^^^ ^ phji. 

, t the s. 

theoretical studies." He then proceeds 

osophy, the comparative study of legal 
ioslituiions, political economy, aod ioier- 
naiioDal law. 

These passages are, I think, adequate 
to give a fair view of Professor Seeley's 
position. Hislory is a science, to be 
written scientitically and (o be studied 
scientifically in conjunction wiih other 
stndies. It should pursue a practical ob- 
ject and be read with direct reference to 
practical poll (ics — usJDg the latter word, 
DO doubt, in an enlightened sense. His- 
tory is D0( a narrative of all sorts of facts 
— biographical, moral, political — but of 
such Tacts as a scientific diagnosis has 
ascertained to be historically interesting. 
In fine, history, if her study is to be prof- 
itable and not a mere pastime, less ex. 

isling (haa skittles and cheaper than '^gQ^[j 

"""' * """" = '" " follows: — 


Poets, no less than pr 
sionally say good things 
and (he following oraculi 
Sheiley is n< - 

horse exercise, must be dominated by 
some theory capable of verification by 
reference lo certain ascer(ained facts be- 
fengiog to a particular class. 

Is this (he right way of looking upon 
history? The dictionaries tell us that 
his(ory and s(ory are the same word, and 
are derived from a Greek source, signify- 
ing ioformadoQ obtained by inquiry. The 
natural delinilion of history, therefore, 
surely is the story of man upon earth, and 
the historian is he who tells us any chapter 
or fragment of that story. All things that 
on earth do dwell have, no doubt, (heir 
hislory as well at mao ; but when a mem- 
ber, however humble, of (he human race 

essora, occa- 

u(terance of 

)oeiQ wriden by time upon 
of meo. The past, like an 
inspired rhapsodist, fills the theatre of 
everlasting generations with her harmo- 

If this be thought a little too fanciful, 
let me adorn this page with a passage 
from one of the great masters of English 
prose — Walter Savage Landor. Would 
that the pious labor 01 transcription could 
confer (he tiniest measure of the gift I In 
that bundle of imaginary letters Landor 

Pericles and Aapasia," we fiod 

itiog (o her friend Cleooe as 

speaks of his(ory without any explanatory ,i,e fluties of 

To-dav there came to visit us a writer who 
is not yet an Author : his name is Thucydides. 
We understand thai he has been these several 
vears engaged in preparation for a history. 
Wricles inviied him lo meet Herodotus, when 
that wonderful man had returned Co our coun- 
try and was abuut to sail from Athens. Until 
then \i was believed by the intimate friends of 
Thucydides that he would devote hia life to 
Poetry, and such is his vigor both of thought 
and expression that he would have been the 
rival of Pindar. Even now he is fonder of 
talking on poetry than any other subject, and 
hluahed when history was mentioned. By de- 
grees, however, he warmed, and listened with 
to (he discourse of Peiides on 

t, he may be presumed to be allud> 
iog to his own family records, to the story i greatest, 
of humanity during its passage across (he tists '-— 
earth's surface. 

" May 01 

are growiog too loquacious both on the stage 


and off. We make disquisitions which render — and surely the assertion is not neces- 

us only more and more dim-sighted, and ex- sarily paradoxical — these studies ought 

cursions that only consume our stores. If not to be allowed to disfigure the free 

some among us who have acquired celebrity flowing outline of the historical muse, or 

by their compositions, calm candid, contem- ^^ ^^icken her clear utterance, which in 

plative men, were to undertake the history of u^.. u: ,u-., »^^^„ ^u^«»» «« ^ri;,. ^«/4 :» 

Athens from the invasion of Xerxes, I should ^^' ^'^^5^ "^^^^^ chants an epic, and m 

expect a fair and full criticism on the orations her ordinary moods recites a narrative 

of Antiphon, and experience no disappoint- which need nol be drowsy, 

ment at their forgetting the battle of Salamis. As for maxims, we all of us have our 

History, when she has lost her Muse, will lose ** little hoard of maxims'* wherewith to 

her dignity, her occupation, her character, her preach down our hearts and justify any- 

name. She will wander about the Agora ; she thing shabby we may have done, but the 

will start, she will stop, she will look wild, she less we import their cheap wisdom into 

will look stupid, she will take languidly to her history the better. The author of " The 

bosom doubts, queries, essays, dissertations. Expansion of England" will probably 

Xw!Vnd'^art"o\'t'ard%^^^^^ agrL with Burke 'in thinking 'that "i 

History should not merely be well tilled, but S^'C^^ empire and a small mind go ill to- 

well peopled None is delightful to me or in- gether," and so, surely, a fortiori, must a 

teresting in which I find not as many illustrious mighty universe and any possible maxim, 

names as have a right to enter it. We might There have been plenty of brave histori- 

as well in a drama place the actors behind the cal maxims before Professor Seeley*8, 

scenes and listen to the dialogue there, as in a though only Lord Bolingbroke's has had 

history push valiant men back and protrude the good luck to become itself historical.* 

ourselves with husky disputations. Show me ^q^j „ f^r theories. Professor Flint, a 

rather how great projects were executed, great , ^ j j^ l^^^„ ^^ ^^e pains 

advantages gained, and great calamities avert- ^ ^ . r ! r ^u j *u:- 

ed. ShSw me the generals and the statesmen to enumerate fourteen French and thir- 

who stood foremost, that I may bend to them teen German philosophies of history cur- 

in reverence ; tell me their names, that I may rent (though some, I expect, never ran 

repeat them to my children. Teach me whence either fast or far) since the revival of 

laws were introduced, upon what foundation learning. 

laid, by what custody guarded, in what inner We are (are we not?) in these days in 
keep preserved, 
lie closed as 

d. Let the books of the treasury no little danger of being philosophy-rid- 
religiously as the Sibyl's; leave ^^^ ^nd of losing our love for facts sim- 

her. Eloquence and War." to keep the philosophers in awe, at least 

to supply their opponents with stones. 

Thisis, doubtless, a somewhat full-dress But now it is different. Carlyle is no 

view of history. Landor was not one of more a model historian than is Shake- 

our modern dressing-gown and slippers speare a model dramatist. The merest 

kind of author. He always took pains to tyro can count the faults of either on his 

be splendid, and preferred stately magnif- clumsy fingers. That born critic, the late 

icence to chatty familiarity. But, after Sir George Lewis, had barely completed 

allowing for this, is not the passage I have his tenth year before he was able, in a 

quoted infused with a great deal of the letter to his mother, to point out to her 

true spirit which should animate the the essentially faulty structure of ** Ham* 

historian, and does it not seem to take us let,*' and many a duller wit, a decade or 

by the hand, and lead us very far away two later in his existence, has come to the 

from Professor Seeley*s maxims and mor- conclusion that *' Frederick the Great'' is 

als, his theoretical studies, his political far too long. But whatever were Carlyle's 

philosophy, his political economy, and his faults, his historical method was superbly 

desire to break the drowsy spell of narra- naturalistic. Have we a historian left us 

live, and to set us all problems? I ask so honestly possessed as he was with the 

this question in no spirit of enmity to- genuine historical instinct, the true enthu- 

wards these theoretical studies, nor do I siasm to know what happened ; or one 

doubt for one moment that the student of half so fond of a story for its own sake, 

history proper, who has a turn in their or so in love with things, nor for what they 

directions, will find his pursuit made only were, but simply because they were ? 

the more fascinating the more he studies ** What wonderful things are events ! " 
them — just as a little botany is said to 

add to the charm of a country walk ; but • History U philosophy teaching by examples. 



wrote Lord Beaconsfield in " Coningsby ; " 
** the least are of greater importance than 
the most sublime and comprehensive spec- 
ulations." To say this is to go perhaps 
too far ; certainly it is to go farther than 
Carlyle, who none the less was in sym- 
pathy with the remark — for he also wor- 
shipped events, believing as he did that 
bat for the breath of God*s mouth they 
never would have been events at all. We 
thus find him always treating even compar- 
atively insignificant facts with a measure 
of reverence and handling them lovingly, 
as does a book-hunter the shabbiest pam- 
phlet in his collection. We have only to 
think of Carlyle's essay on the '* Diamond 
Necklace " to fill our minds with his 
qualifications for the proud office of the 
historian. Were that inimitable piece of 
workmanship to be submitted to the criti- 
cisms of the new scientific school we doubt 
whether it would be so much as classed, 
whilst the celebrated description of the 
night before the battle of Dunbar in 
•♦Cromwell," or any of the hundred scenes 
from the " French Revolution," would, we 
expect, be catalogued as good examples 
of that degrading process whereby history 
fades into mere literature. 

This is not a question, be it observed, 
of style. What is called a picturesque 
style is generally a great trial. Who was 
it who called Professor Masson's style 
Carlyle on wooden legs ? What can be 
drearier than when a plain, matter-of-fact 
writer attempts to be animated, and tries 
to make his characters live by the easy 
but futile expedient of writing about them 
in the present tense? What is wanted is 
a passion for facts ; the style may be left 
to take care of itself. Let me name a 
historian who detested fine writing, and 
who never said to himself, " Go to, I will 
make a description," and who yet was 
dominated by a love for facts, whose one 
desire always was to know what happened, 
to dispel illusion and establish the true 
account — Dr. S. R. Maitland, of the 
Lambeth Library, whose volumes entitled 
•*The Dark Ages" and •^The Reforma- 
tion " are to history what Milton's ** Ly- 
cidas " is said to be to poetry : if they do 
not interest you, your tastes are not his- 

The difference, we repeat, is not of style, 
but of aim. Is history a pageant or a 
philosophy? That eminent historian. 
Lord Macaulay, whose passion for letters 
and for ** mere literature " ennobled his 
whole life, has expressed himself in some 
places, I need scarcely add in a most 
forcible manner, in the same sense as 

Professor Seeley. In his well-known 
essay on history contributed to the Edin- 
burgh Review in 1828, we find him writing 
as follows : ** Facts are the mere dross of 
history. It is from the abstract truth 
which interpenetrates them, and lies latent 
amongst them like gold in the ore, that 
the mass derives its whole value." And 
again : ** No past event has any intrinsic 
importance. The knowledge of it is val- 
uable only as it leads us to form just cal- 
culations with respect to the future." 
These are strong passages ; but Lord 
Macaulay was a royal eclectic, and was 
quite out of sympathy with the majority of 
that brotherhood who are content to tone 
down their contradictories to the dull level 
of ineptitudes. Macaulay never toned 
down his contradictories, but, heightening 
everything all round, went on his sublime 
way rejoicing like a strong man to run a 
race, and well knowing that he could give 
anybody five yards in fifty and win easily. 
It is therefore no surprise to find him, in 
the very essay in which he speaks so con- 
temptuously of facts, laying on with his 
vigorous brush a celebrated purple patch 
I would gladly transfer to my own dull 
page were it not too long and too well 
known. A line or two taken at random 
will give its purport : — 

A truly great historian would reclaim those 
materials the novelist has appropriated. We 
should not then have to look fo|- the wars and 
votes of the Puritans in Clarendon and for 
their phraseology in "Old Mortality," for one 
half of King James in Hume and for the other 
half in the "Fortunes of Nigel." . , . Society 
would be shown from the highest to the low- 
est, from the royal cloth of slate to the den of 
the outlaw, from the throne of the legate to 
the chimney-corner where the begging friar re- 
galed himself. Palmers, minstrels, crusaders, 
the stately monastery with the good cheer in 
its refectory and the high mass in its chapel, 
the manor-house with its hunting and hawking, 
the tournament with the heralds and ladies, 
the trumpets and the cloth of gold, would give 
truth and life to the representation. 

It is difficult to see what abstract truth 
interpenetrates the cheer of the refectory, 
or what just calculations with respect to 
the future even an upholsterer could draw 
from a cloth, either of state or of gold ; 
whilst most people will admit that when 
the brilliant essayist a few years later set 
himself to compose his own magnificent 
history, so far as he interpenetrated it 
with the abstract truths of Whiggism, and 
calculated that the future would be satis- 
fied with the first Reform Bill, he did ill 
and guessed wrong. 



To reconcile Macaulay's utterances on 
this subject is beyond my powers, but of 
two things 1 am satisfied : the first is that, 
were he to come to life again, a good many 
of us would be more careful than we are 
how we wrote about him, and the second 
is that, on the happening of the same 
event, he would be found protesting 
against the threatened domination of all 
things by scientific theory. A Western 
American, who was once compelled to 
spend some days in Boston, was accus- 
tomed in after life to describe that seat of 
polite learning to his horrified companions 
in California as a city in whose streets 
respectability stalked unchecked. This 
is just what philosophical theories are 
doing amongst us, and a decent person 
can hardly venture abroad without one, 
though it does not much matter which 
one. Everybody is expected to have " a 
system of philosophy with principles co- 
herent, interdependent, subordinate, and 
derivative,'' and to be able to account for 
everything, even for things it used not 
to be thought sensible to believe in, 
like ghosts and haunted bouses. Keats 
remarks in one of his letters with great ad- 
miration upon what he christens Shake- 
speare's ** negative capability,*' meaning 
thereby Shakespeare's habit of complais- 
ant observation from outside. of theory, 
and his keen enjoyment of the unexplained 
facts of life. He did not pour himself out 
in %very strife. We have but little of this 
negative capability. The ruddy qualities 
of delightfulness, of pleasantness, are all 
sickled o'er with the pale cast of thought. 
The varied elements of life — 

The joy of existence, 
The stir of the world — 

seem to be fading from literature. Pure 
literary enthusiasm sheds but few rays. 
To be lively is to be flippant, and epigram 
is dubbed paradox. 

That many people appear to like a drab- 
colored world hung round with dusky 
shreds of philosophy is sufficiently obvi- 
ous. These persons find any relaxation 
they may require from a too severe course 
of theories, religious, political, social, or 
DOW, alas! historical, in the novels of Mr. 
W. D. Howells, an American gentleman 
who has not been allowed to forget that 
be once asserted of fiction what Professor 
Seeley would be g^lad to be able to assert 
of history, that the drowsy spell of narra* 
live has been broken. We are to look for 
DO more Sir Walters, no more Thack- 
erays, no more Dickenses. The stories 
have all been told. Plots are exploded. 

Incident is over. In moods of dejection 
these dark sayings seemed only too true. 
Shakespeare's saddest of sad lines rose to 
one's lips, — 

My grief lies onward and my joy behind* 

Behind us are " I van hoe " and " Guy Man- 
nering," "Pendennis" and "The Virgin- 
ians," Pecksniff and Micawber. In front 
of us stretch a never-ending series, a 
dreary vista of ** Foregone Conclusions," 
*• Counterfeit Presentments," and " Un- 
discovered Countries." But the darkest 
watch of the night is the one before the 
dawn, and relief is often nearest us when 
we least expect it. All this gloomy non- 
sense was suddenly dispelled, and the 
fact that really and truly, and behind this 
philosophical arras, we were all inwardly 
ravening for stories was roost satisfac- 
torily established by the incontinent man- 
ner in which we flung ourselves into the 
arms of Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson, to 
whom we could almost have raised a 
statue in the market-place for having writ- 
ten "Treasure Island." 

But to return to history. The inter- 
ests of our poor human life, which seems 
to become duller every day, require that 
the fields of history should be kept for- 
ever unenclosed, and be a free breathing- 
place for a pallid population well-nigh 
stifled with the fumes of philosophy. 

Were we, imaginatively, to propel our- 
selves forward to the middle of the next 
century, and to fancy a well-equipped his- 
torian armed with the digested learning 
of Gibbon, endowed with the eye of Car- 
lyle, and say one-fifteenth of his humor, 
even then a dangerous allotment in a dull 
world, the moral gravity of Dr. Arnold, 
the critical sympathy of Sainte-Beuve, and 
the style of Dr. Newman, approaching 
the period through which we have lived, 
should we desire this talented mortal to 
encumber himself with a theory into which 
to thrust all our doings as we toss clothes 
into a portmanteau; to set himself to ex- 
tract the essence of some new political 
philosophy, capable of being applied to 
the practical politics of his own day, or to 
busy himself with problems or economics ? 
To us, personally, of course, it is a matter 
of indifference how the historians of the 
twentieth century conduct themselves, but 
ought not our altruism to bear the strain 
of a hope that at least one of the band 
may avoid all these things, and, leaving 
(>olitical philosophy to the political philos- 
opher and political economy to the politi- 
cal economist, remember that the first, if 
not the last, duty of the historian is to 



narrate, to supply the text not the com- 
ment, the subject not the sermon, and 
proceed to tell our grandchildren and re- 
moter issue the story of our lives ? The 
clash of arms will resound through his 
pages as musically as ever it does through 
those of the elder historians as he tells of 
the encounter between the Northern and 
Southern States of America, in which 
Right and Might, those great twin breth- 
ren, fought side by side; but romance, 
that ancient parasite, clung afifectionately 
with her tendril hands to the mouldering 
walls of an ancient wrong, thus enabling 
the historian, whilst awarding the victor's 
palm to General Grant, to write kindly of 
the lost cause, dear to the heart of a no- 
bler and more chivalrous man. General 
Lee, of the Virginian Army. And again, 
is it not almost possible to envy the his- 
torian to whom will belong the task of 
writing with full information, and all the 
advantage of the true historic distance, 
the history of that series of struggles and 
heroisms, of plots and counter-plots, of 
crimes and counter-crimes, resulting in 
the freedom of Italy, and of telling to a 
world, eager to listen, the life story of 
Joseph Mazzini ? 

Of God nor man was ever this thing said, 

That he could give 
Life back to her who gave him, whence his 

Mother might live. 
Bat this man found his mother dead and slain, 

With fast sealed eyes, 
And bade the dead rise up and live again, 

And she did rise. 

Nor will our imaginary historian be un- 
mindful of Cavour, or fail to thrill his 
readers by telling them how, when the 
great Italian statesman, with many sins 
upon his conscience, lay in the very grasp 
of death, he interrupted the priests, busy 
at their work of intercession, almost 
roughly, with the exclamation, "Pray not 
forme. Pray for Italy; " whilst if he be 
one who has a turn for that ironical pas- 
time, the dissection of a king, the curious 
character, and muddle of motives, calling 
itself Carlo Alberto will afford him mate- 
rial for at least two paragraphs of subtle 
interest. Lastly, if our historian is ambi- 
tious of a larger canvas and of deeper 
colors, what is there to prevent him, brac- 
ing himself to the task, 

as when some mighty painter dips 
His pencil in the hues of earthquake and 

from writing the epitaph of the Napo- 
leonic legend ? 

But all this time I hear Professor See* 
ley whispering in my ear, " What is this 
but the old literary groove leading to no 
trustworthy knowledge?" If by trust- 
worthy knowledge is meant demonstrable 
conclusions, capable of being expressed 
in terms at once exact and final, trust- 
worthy knowledge is not to be gained 
from the witness of history, whose testi- 
mony none the less must be received, 
weighed, and taken into account. Truly 
observes Carlyle: ** If history is philos- 
ophy teaching by examples, the writer 
fitted to compose history is hitherto an 
unknown man. Better were it that mere 
earthly historians should lower such pre- 
tensions, and, aiming only at some picture 
of the thing acted, which picture itself 
will be but a poor approximation, leave 
the inscrutable purport of them an ac- 
knowledged secret." ** Some picture of 
the thing acted," Here we behold the 
task of the historian; nor is it an idle, 
fruitless task. Science is not the only, or 
the chief, source of knowledge. The 
Iliad, Shakespeare's plays, have taught 
the world more than the "Politics" of 
Aristotle or the " Novum Organum " of 

Facts are not the dross of history, but 
the true metal, and the historian is a 
worker in that metal. He has nothing to 
do with abstract truth, or with practical 
politics, or with forecasts of the future. 
A worker in metal he is, and has certainly 
plenty of what Lord Bacon used to call 
"stuff" to work upon; but if he is to be 
a great historian, and not a mere chroni- 
cler, he must be an artist as well as an 
artisan, and have something of the spirit 
which animated such a man as Francesco 
Francja of Bologna, now only famous as 
a painter, but in his own day equally cele- 
brated as a worker in gold, and whose 
practice it was to sign his pictures with 
the word goldsmith after his name, whilst 
he engraved painter on his golden cruci- 

The true historian, therefore, seeking to 
compose a true picture of the thing acted, 
must collect facts, select facts, and com- 
bine facts. Methods will differ, styles 
will differ. Nobody ever does anything 
exactly like anybody else ; but the end in 
view is generally the same, and the histo- 
rian's end is truthful narration. Maxims 
he will have, if he is wise, never a one; 
and as for a moral, if he tell his story well, 
it will need none — if he tell it ill, it will 
deserve none. 

The stream of narrative flowing swiftly, 
as it does, over the jagged rocks of human 



destiny must often be turbulent and 
tossed ; it is therefore all the roore the 
duty of every good citizen to keep it as 
undefiled as possible, and to do what in 
him lies to prevent peripatetic philoso- 
phers on the banks from throwing their 
theories into it, either dead ones to decay, 
or living ones to drown. Let the philoso- 
phers ventilate their theories, construct 
their blow-holes, extract their essences, 
discuss their maxims, and point their 
morals as much as they will ; but let them 
do so apart. History must not lose her 
muse, or " take to her bosom doubts, 
queries, essays, dissertations, some of 
which oua;ht to go before her, some to 
follow, and all to stand apart/' Let us at 
all events secure our narrative first — ser- 
mons and philosophy the day after. 

Augustine Birrell. 

From The Nineteenth Century. 


[The subjoined letters were written by a 
private in the nth Hussars, and were offered 
to this review without the writer's knowledge 
— his assent being subsequently obtained* — 

Cairo: March i, 1883. 

My DEAR Mother, — It is with a feel- 
ing of thankfulness that I write this to you 
from this horrible country, because 1 ex- 
pected never to hold a pen in my hand 
again ; indeed, only a week ago 1 thought 
so, and I also think you would have 
thought so too had you seen me in the 
Citadel Hospital, Cairo. I was one out 
of many who, not being of a strong con- 
stitution, su6Eered from those two preva- 
lent diseases here, dysentery and enteric 
fever, each of which is $umcient to lay 
you under six feet of earth, only I suppose 
God in his mercy thought fit to inflict me 
with both, but thought fit to save me (after 
showing me his power) from an early 
death, and to (I hope) see you all again in 
the course of time. My dear mother, I 
knew well before I came out here that 
I could not stand the climate, which has 
killed many stronger than myself, but of 
course I enlisted for a soldier, and /'/ is 
a soldier's duty to bear all these things 
without a murmur, because when you en- 
list it is the same as marriage, you have 
to take it "for better, for worse,'* so to 
speak. As soon as I got out here from 
England, of course (a great many being 
sick) the work was very hard for us, three 
or four horses to one roan ; and the day 

after I came out here I was attacked with 
diarrhoea, which grew very bad, and I 
very weak. However, seeing the amount 
of work to be done, I didn't report myself 
sick until 1 found my inside getting sore, 
and I began to throw off blood, and theo 
I knew I was only doing myself and my 
family justice by reporting myself sick, 
for I knew dysentery was on me. 

The doctor gave me two or three astrin* 
gent medicines to bind me, but he should 
have sent roe straight to hospital. I went 
to my work again, but was little able to 
do it. Four days after, I fainted whilst 
at midday stables (our stables here is the 
open desert, with the full blaze of the sun 
upon you from eleven o^ clock till one, and 
no shelter except that of your helmet), 
and the sergeant major sent me up to the 
hospital tent (because you know we are 
under canvas here), and the doctor was 
sent for, who took my temperature — 96*. 
He sent me into Cairo next morning, to 
the Citadel Hospital, where I was treated 
for enteric fever and dysentery, the only 
cure for which is starvation. I ate noth- 
ing for eighteen days, and was unable to 
move a finger for eight or ten days after; 
all I was allowed to take was weak tea 
and water, and occasionally a little milk. 
At the end of eighteen days the doctor 
took pity on me, and ordered me chicken 
diet. Then I began to pull up a bit, and 
he gradually rose my diet till I got this 
much for a day*s grub: two chickens, 
eight ounces of brandy, three-quarters of 
a pound of bread, two pints of milk, one 
pint of arrowroot, and six ounces of rice. 
Besides that, when the doctor would leave 
the ward I would ask Sister Annie, my 
nurse, to let me get up (for I was then 
allowed to sit up on my bed for half an 
hour daily, and on no occasion to stand^ 
and then 1 would get one of the orderlies 
of the Army Hospital Corps to go and get 
me some bread, and I would eat, besides 
my allowance, three or four pounds of 
bread, and then ask him to go for more 
again at night. You may laugh ; but think 
of those eighteen days on cold tea. I can 
assure you that as soon as I had eaten 
one meal I was ready for the next. 

One day last week. General Sir Archi- 
bald Alison visited us, and it so happened 
that he chose my doctor to take him round 
the wards and show him some particular 
cases. I, being but a bag of bones, at- 
tracted his attention, and the two of them 
came and sat down on my bed, the doctor 
having assured him that all danger of in- 
. fection was gone. The general took up 
: my diet sheet and, looking at it, said to 


the doctor, " Aod do you mean to say that him to come and give it to me (I wouldn't 
he eats all this in one day ?" The doctor trouble the sister, as she was waitin«^ on 
referred him to the sister, who was close worse cases than mine: her title is Lady 
by, and she told him to ask me; and I Norman), and I watched the door for 
said, ** General, I eat all that and as three hours and he didn't come, and I lay 
much again." ** Indeed,'' said the gen- almost mad with thirst all that night, but 
era], "why, that's more than /eat in four I couldn't reach it myself, and so I did 
days." He looked at my fat (?) face, and without it. However, I got over that, 
said, ** Well, I believe you — you look as and am none the worse, 
if you could manage three times as much, I am accumulating curiosities by the 
and I hope your kind doctor won't forbid dozen. I have now a bar of iron from 
you eating it." He then wished me good- the window where Arabi Pasha was con- 
bye and went off to the next ward. The fined before his trial. The window is 
next day the doctor came in and increased only eight yards from my stable here. I 
my diet to a quart of beef tea, and that I have also a very large lizard which I found 
bad till I left the hospital. under my bed, but it is dead now. There 
Where I am writing this is half a mile is a horrible plague of flies here, and you 
from camp, and I'll have to walk that in cannot open your mouth to eat but two or 
the dark, and it's rather dangerous, al- three sail down with the food. You must 
though I have my sword with me for excuse my scrawl, as I am getting out of 
safety. 1 hope that you are all quite well practice with the pen. At present** the 
yourselves. I am getting quite fat and sword is mighter than the pen." 
red again. There is talk of our shifting Cairo: July 9, 1883. 
into barracks at Cairo, because this does j^^^^ Mother, - It is some time since 
not agree with the men, a though It agrees j j^^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ , ^^^^ ^^^^ j,j 

wuh the horses. Must now wish you -^ j^ hospital for twenty days with an- 

good-bye for the present. ^-^^^ 3,^^ ^^^^^ , ^^^J^ ^^f, ^^.^^^ ^.,1 

From your affectionate son. ^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^ j^^ ^^^ , ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^-^^^ 

Cairo: Easter Monday, .883. JJ"^ jJ^'a'llTl Told him^l wa^a^'''"tOUl^^' 

MY DEAR MOTHER. - I received your b'j,^ ' he"" would" not'LieTe' me."At%ne 

kind letter on Saturday evening. I was ^.^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ j^^ ^^ ^^ ^^^. 

Tery ill, but was rapidly cured wUh that ^„, ^^^ ,^^ ^^.^^ j^^^ j,,^ ^.^^ j^ ^.^^ 

onfy cure -n th>s country starvation or castor-oil, and you know what //m/ is like 

very near It. 1 thank God. though, that ,orf,i„,j' i had two doses of castor-oilin 

I am a-a>n strong and hearty as ever, hospital, and the first nearly killed me; it 

Fever out here is as common as flea-bites i^^^ ^^^.i ^ the flesh off me. and I was 
only, of course, every poor soul does not ^^ ^^ a chicken. The doctor ordered 

come off scot-free, as I have both times. ^^ .„.w-..«»*»i«r, ;,.« «,:iu ^r^A ^k;,»i.*.., 

,-., J ^ -J »L * I ..•!•*• nie watermelon, ice, milk, and cnickea 

The doctor said that I went sick just in u,^,l ^„j ,u^^J ^i^*l ^t i^L^^^^.. ^ a^„ . 

. . , ^ , ,^ o J. re ' .1 broth, and three pints oi lemonade a day ; 

time, or It might have resulted differently. („; ' ^ ,„j j^„„ "^^^ medicine. Should I 

I Hw three men die with it on three sue- ^ ^„„,h„ ^,,3^^ I ^^^^^^ -^ ^„ ^.^y,-^. 

cessive days, but brought it on themselves f ^ ^^^^ ,,„„,^ 3 ^ „ater and the 

^rough drink. I saw a Highlander heat are the cause of it. 
brought in insensible at eight o clock, and 

be died at nine. He drank a bottle of El Wordan, Egypt: Augusta, 1883. 

cogDac straight off. I saw one of the Dear Mother, — Received your let- 

49th (Berks) brought in at four o'clock, ter this morning; I was very pleased to 

and he was dead at a quarter past four, get it, and am thought to be one of the 

He drank two bottles of cognac for a lucky few who got any. 
wager of half a crown. He won the wa- We are out under canvas again, on the 

ger, but was dead twenty minutes after desert; and goodness knows where we 

the wager was laid. Another I saw die shall go next. We have been what we 

of consumption. So that teetotalism is call ** cholera dodging." We left.Abbas- 

the best policy out here, or look out. siyeh (Cairo) on the morning of the 25th 

Last Monday night I lay helpless in of July, on account of the epidemic break- 

my bed, waiting for my chum to come ing out there, but thank God it has now 

and see me. I wanted a drink of milk, ceased. Three of our men were taken off 

which I had beside me, and I waited for in one day, and we shifted, all in a hurry, 



to about seven miles north of here. We 
got no breakfast before we went; and, 
there not being sufficient horses for every 
man, some of us had to walk six miles to 
Boulac station, where we had to wait until 
the mounted party came up; and then all 
the flurry and fatigue of getting horses 
^nd baggage. into the trainband the sun 
pouring down with a terrible heat on us, 
and no water to be got except hot from 
the canal, and if you drink much of that 
before it is filtered it will bring on dysen- 
tery rapidly; but we have nothing else to 

with part of which I bought this paper and 
stamp. Lastly, it took my own chum, 
who contracted it whiUt waiting on an- 
other cholera victim. The doctor was 
sewn up in a blanket and dragged away by 
a mule cart, and buried in a hole with a 
private soldier ; so that you see cholera 
makes no distinction of personages, and 
high and low are buried together without 
distinction, for there is none above an- 
other. Before the last death occurred we 
shifted camp to here, and here we are to 
remain until sixteen days shall elapse 
drink, so that we snatch even at that, without a death, except it be from sun- 
Four hours in a coal-truck in the heat of stroke or from natural causes. However, 
the day, and nothing to eat or drink, and it has now left the camp, and we are safe 
no shelter from the sun except your hel- once more; but I would rather be in old 
met, and the train going about twelve or England with all its frosts and snows. I 
fourteen miles an hour! By the time we would have written before, but it was for- 
reached our destination (far out in the bidden, for fear of importation of the 
desert) we were nearly done up. I was epidemic. I know you all must have been 
made a prisoner at the time for disobey- in a dreadful state when you read of 
ing an order which I received to go and ** Outbreak amongst British Troops;*' but 
carry some heavy cloaks. I was scarcely it is all gone now. 

able to lift a foot, much less cloaks; and, You know a great deal more of Egyp- 
getting a surly order to do it, I refused, tian news at home than what we do our- 
and was fined four days' pay, with four selves, because we get English papers 
days' confinement. The same night two about ten days after you have read tbero, 
corporals and a private were selected by and then we learn all the news. 
King Cholera, and the poor fellows were I am burning brown as a cocoa-nut. 
sewn up as they were, in three blankets. There are two scorpions fighting on the 
and carried away by mule-carts far into sand in front of me, as I am writing. I 
the desert. Those of the regiment who enclose a little sand* from the desert in 
cared to, followed, and three holes were this letter, for you to see, and we eat a lot 
dug in the sand, and they were put into of it every day in our food. Must now 
them; it was about eleven o'clock at conclude, etc. 
night (8.30 P M., in England), with one To be continued, 
solitary candle to light them, and the vul- cairo: December 31, 1883. 

tures hovering above, waiting until the g^^k again at Cairo. It is some time 
men should be gone. Dear mother, might ^j^^^ , j^^^ ^.^^ ^^^ ^^ j^ave shifted 
It not have selected me? But my t,me i^^^j, 4^^^ our old quarters, and shiftinii 
had not then come, nor yet. Two days j^,^^ ^ ^eal of time, and the labor and 
afterwards, it took another young fellow, ^^^ ^^^^^^ sickness. However, we 
who lived not far from your own home, had no deaths this time. The cholera is 
The next day there was another victim to ^,1 ^,.„ ^^w, and sickness is decreasing 
It, and then it took our much beloved sur- vvonderfullv 

geon himself, who died nobly in the fear- , ^^^^ j Jg^ returned from a long march, 
less execution of his duty^ Oh, mother, ^^.j^j^ thirty-seven other men ; two died on 
I was as sorry as if it had been you or my ^^^ ^^^^ exhaustion, and bad water, 

brother, because I reckon this man has ^^ f^^^^ ^een for nearly three months 
saved my life more than once m this ter- escorting Captain Maxwell up towards 
rible country ; and not only my life, but ^^^ g^^J^^^ ^-^ere he has gone on Baker 
also those of my fellow-crealures. His Pasha's staff. We got nearly into Kordo- 
servant was with him during his short ill- f^n^ ^^en we received an order that the 
ness which only lasts for an hour or two, regiment was about to proceed home, and 
but he knew he was going, because he we were to return with all possible speed, 
saidtoh.s servant: -Led ward, I know 1 ^^i^,^ we did; but owing to the iniense 
am going; take this ring (a diamond one heat and filthy water we could not make 
and send it to my brother, and this gold ^^ j^.^ progress as we should have liked ; 
one to my mother. They were two splen- -» »- o 

did rings. He gave his servant for him- • The sand above mentioned is transparent, and of ft 
self all the money he had about him (14/.), Ai»ty nature, about the size of ordinary gunpowder. 



but it did not roatler, for, whcD we got 
here, we fouod that the order to return to . thi 
England had beed couolermandcd some | tal 
lintc. Wc were lo have embarked or 
Jib o( December, and we did doI con 
till two days before Christmas, and a 

all 1 

marched through Cai 

lorreois. and we were arencnea. ine , "■- — " 
Black Watch were in the citadel and 1 2*:i;';_ . 
gave us a cheer as we passed, 

ciplined heatliens. We start io 

>K vid the Red Sea. 1 shall 

lane me while scarf you gave me. I had 

I all through the cholera, and 1 will lake 

t now. Good-bye for the present. 

Trinl.L.«i Man:h4,.a8^ 


the officers and civilian tourists at Shep- '' 
beard's Hotel as we passed it. Our horses 
and accoutrements were taken from us as '" 
we came in, and we had the rest of the day 
aod the next in bed, and we felt just fresh 
for Christmas day, and the greater part ^^ 
of us thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, the ^^ 
ofScers having provided the troops with a ., 
good Christmas dinner. I have lost about i g. 
twenty pounds of flesh, but, consideringly 
all, I think I got over it pretty well. Heel ^^ 
all right myself, but six of us have gone in ,, 
hospital since we came back. | ,, 

As far as I can see, there is no chance | „ 
of coming borne until the Soudan affair is ;, 
settled. The captain we escorted was : 
sergeant in our regiment who volunteerei 
into the Egyptian army, was given thi 
rank of captain, and presented by thi 
kbedive with the fourth class of the order I vVe"reckon' 
of the Medjidie(a very pretty star worn on 
the breast), and, being in my troop, 1 vol. 
ualcered with the others to escort him lo 
the Soudan, but, as you see, we were not 
able to tinish it on account of our being 
called back. 

! to tell you that I am quite 
cathed, though it was a hard 
tell you, and the odds were 
gainst us, the enemy number- 
s as many as we did ; but we 
did not turn and run away. Will send 
particulars in my next. 

Suikim : Mirch ii, 1SS4- 
Slill alive an'd kicking, but we have not 
me with Ihe.^e people yet. Osman Digna 
rears that he will hold Suakim, if it is 
ily for five minuies, VVe march In the 
iriy morning to Fort Sarlorius, where 
e shall remain entrenched until we obtain 
ime sight of the enemy, who are hiding 

cannot get into the 

>, buti 

n drivi 



. 1884. 

Getting much fatter 
been giving us extra food in order to make 

There is a poor fellow lying down oppo- 
site me crying. He has just received a 
black.edged letter losay his father is dead, 
aod it must seem more sad to him when 
he hears the singing and shouting and 
clatter around htm, and to think there is 
no one to comfort or sympathize with him. 
He is but eighteeo years of age, and joined 

Ciiroi Ftbniary 17, •»&*. 
Time is precious now. By the lime 
this letter reaches you we shall be before 
the enemy. I am glad that the time has 
arrived by which I hope to show thai I am 
a soldier, though a very young one, far we 
are not going to let the Mahdi beat us. 
There are one hundred thousand o! the 
enemy, and twenty-eight thousand of us, 
so the chances are four to one against us ; 
but we are well-trained men, and Ihey are 

with a couple of Krupp guns. We hope 
to gel another general engagement like 
we had at Teb, but we expect to meet 
about thirty thousand of them. This is a 
li you can call it a toivn. 
.is!) the whole affair in 
another eight days, and then we might 
stand a chance of going home. I will 
write again after the engagement, 

Cairo: Cood Fiida^. 1SS4. 

Just been to church and heard service. 
We have beeo back only a tew days from 
the Soudan. We chased Osman Digna 
into the mountains about ten miles, but 
we could not entice him out on 10 the open 
plain. Cavalry is no good to fiohl in 
among rocks and ravines. We found out 
his camp, but as soon as Osman sees us 
near him he bolts for his life. He is al- 
together too artful for us. Alter the bat- 
lie of Tamanieb we went into his forts 
and blew up the whole of his stores and 
amrnunition which he had concealed there 
under the ground. We all had spears and 
knives which we took from the enemy 
after the battles, but the commanding 
officer look them alt away, as he said, 
hould get home, but 

shall t 

r get I 

, be- 

, ill be sent to the Tower .. 
London as trophies. 

We look nearly six days lo come up 
the Red Sea. My chum was taken ill at 
Handuk with dysentery and fever, which 
he brought on himself, because when we 
^ot to Handuk we were parched with 



thirst, having marched seventeen miles 
throu<^h the heat of the day, and we found 
five wells there; but when we went to 
drink the water we found it salt, or nearly 
so, and one well had black water in it, 
which he went to, and drank about half a 
gallon ri^^ht off. I said to him, ** Fred, 
you will be ill before morning through 
that." True enough, the same evening I 
had the task of putting him on a stretcher 
in an ambulance wagon, and he was taken 
to the base hospital, an almost hopeless 
case. However, I heard no more of him 
until at Suakim I was told that the doctors 
had given him over. I was more grieved 
than if he had been my own brother, be- 
cause, being constantly with him, we are 
like brothers, and I was not allowed to 
see him. Well, we arrived at Abbassiyeh 
(Cairo) about midnight, and the Essex 
regiment (56ih) gave us a "spread," and I 
was hungry and cold, I can tell you ; but 
no sooner had I commenced, than one of 
our men who had not been to the front 
came up to me and told me that my chum 
had been buried at Suez the day before. 
I was like one paralyzed. I went out of 
the room and cried like a child, I was so 
grieved ; and the worst of it was, he had 
sent me a message to go to him, but I 
wasn^t allowed to see him. 1 went to my 
barrack room and tried to sleep, but I 
passed a miserable night, and all next day 
I was the same. I couldn't eat or drink. 
Well, I went to bed the second night, and 
the trumpeter had just 'sounded ** lights 
out," when 1 felt some one touch me on 
the shoulder, and 1 looked out from under 
the blanket, and who should I see but my 
own chum, fully armed and equipped, as 
he had been on the campaign 1 I thought 
I was dreaming. It was him right enough. 
He bad just recovered, and been dis- 
charged from the Citadel Hospital; and 
his first thought was to come in and see 
me and how I was at that late hour, 10.15 
P.M. I told him to get to bed as quickly 
as he could, or else he would catch cole), 
and probably bring on a relapse, which is 
very dangerous. The next day I explained 
matters to him, and I went straight to the 
fellow who had told me on the previous 
night about his death, and I taught him 
the reason why he should not play practi- 
cal jokes, and at such unseasonable times. 
However, my friend is all right again now, 
and 1 hope he will continue so. We are 
just getting our accoutrements a bit ship- 
shape again. 

It is very hot here, but not so by ten 
decrees as it is in the Soudan. I have 
still the old white scarf, mother; it served 

me throughout the campaign. Some 
nights it served for a blanket, and some- 
times for a scarf when I should be on out- 
lying picquet at night; and it was a pillow 
for the first man wounded at El Teb, and 
four of us carried him from the front down 
to the base hospital, a distance of ten 
miles, on a stretcher, and two miles of 
that was deep mire. I lost my boots and 
spurs in it and then my socks. We were 
seven hours carrying him, and when we 
got there we were given a drink of water 
for our pains, and my feet were cut with 
glass and sharp stones and sand; and, 
would you believe it, they sent us o£F with- 
out any breakfast in the morning, we four, 
and I had to walk bare-footed to Teb ; and 
when we got there the cavalry brigade 
were just starting the march to Tokar, so 
I rode to theTelief of Tokar with an empty 
belly, a dry tongue, and my bare feet in 
the stirrups, and covered an inch thick 
with greasy mud from the bog, and that's 
how I marched to the relief of Tokar. 

Cairo : Easter Sunday, 18S4. 

Dear Friend, — You were no doubt 
glad to know that I was safe and sound 
after our some hard struggle, for I can 
assure you that it was a near tie at times. 
For instance, when we charged at El Teb 
we had to come back through them again. 
Well, we came back, and back again a 
//tird time through them. We were the 
leading squadron (the regiment being 
formed up in squadron column), and our 
commanding officer galloped us still on, 
the consequence being we were cut off 
from the main body and surrounded by 
some seven or eight hundred of the en- 
emy, who thought that they had us. How- 
ever, one of the squadron scouts, whose 
duty it was to inform the squadron leader 
of any danger, told the officer that we 
were cut 08. and surrounded. " The — — - 
we are!" exclaimed that gentleman: 
** Troops, right-about wheel! "and every 
man gripped his sword as though his life 
were in his hand, and we went back again 
through the black beggars. It was five 
minutes' hard riding, but we did it, and 
lost only two men out of one hundred and 
twenty, whilst I suppose every man of 
ours made his mark in one or two of them, 
the reason of our success being that our 
squadron had English horses, and all the 
rest of the regiment had Arabs. A charge 
of English horses is not to be withstood, 
on account of their wei«{ht and great 
speed, but some of the Arab horses are 
like little Cairo donkeys, thus offering 
facility to the enemy. However, it's over 


DOW for tbe time beini;, but I fear from 
rumor that we shall remain here until about 
September, wlien, 1 thiok, in all prcbabi^ 

ity we shall be the doomed v 


ruary 34 h 

n spci ■ 

'ed to be necessary. On Feb- 
got a sudden order lo return 
. Meriwi, which \ 

1 expedition to Khartoum, vi'd IJerber, 
for the purpose of meeting and settling 
Mr. Mahdi, it he will allow us. I must 
DOW conclude, as I feel sick, and must gel 
to bed, although it is only half past one. 

of before, hoivcver, about twenty of u 


1 Hospi 

I, Abbisi 

, 18S4. 

I have been down for tbe last 
with enteric fever, but the lever left me '" 
two days a^o, but quite helpless — help-'* 
less as a child. At one lime Iliere was '^ 
great danger, the temperature running up * 
to lo6°, wliich is as high as has been '^ 
known. I kept 106" (or two days, and' 
then it sank to 105°, and kept a gradi ' " 

when ii 

1 the 

'day before yesterday, ^°"'- holding •!"* Pl' 

h Colonel ISutler and staff and re- 
connoitred to within a couple of miles of 
Abu Hamed, which was a move fraught 
with no little danger, for liad the enemy 
noticed us me should have stood but a 
poor chance, because all tbe infantry had 
retired at least live or six hours before 
us. We, however, got back saiely, and 
accomplished the return journey in about 
a week. We found Stewart's ill-fated 
steamer on our road up. high and dry on 
a rock in a narrow channel on the right of 
close to Boni Island. We are 
i, thirty miles south of 
' * ' " " 1 advanced 

I post ensuring the safety of troops at Korti, 
,. and northwards at least from any party 
He br'ought"me"a'p''-"'y ja'i^ ™'''<:l' ™"y come down the Nile. There 
* ^ ' ■' '^ are here the Black Watch, filty of the 

Camel Corps, two guns, and our solitary 
troop. This is a very healthy place, but 
a great many are sickening from the sun, 
fever, dysentery, and various other ait- 
^_ i ments, but I remain at present a model of 
^ health and hope of it. I have not had a 
,j I single day's illness on the whole campaign 
Q to my recollection. We have tost our 
[ 'poor doctor. Surgeon Turner, who sick- 
,_ I ened of dysentery and died in three days 
' iofit. He was much loved by 

one pound and a quarter of 
ounces of brandy, four pints of beef tea, 
and as much milk as I want, and a milk 
diet, t ale a piece of bread and straw- 
l>erry jam yesterday, the first I have eaten 
since the 14th ol April ; and yet I am not 
hungry. You should see my old lante 
jaws. 1 don't know how much tiesh 
bave lost, but it is a great deal. It is ti 
ing niy strength to sit up writing Ihi 

because I am very weak. I have I 
fed from a feeding-cup. 



sick, I 

My DEAR Mother, 
ceived two letters fron 

January 25 and the other February 9, all ill ag: 
mails having been delayed at Korusko ' of Oi 
until the departure of the convoy which 1 in th 
was to bring us up provisioi 
Hamed, but which luckily did m 
or 1 imagine we (Bracken bury's colui 
should have been in a curious position 
for I think that had we gone up as far a; 
Abu Hamed we should undoubtedly havi 
got the worst of it, for Wad Gama, thi 
aheik of Monassi 

e dated I I a 

hope of s 
to Abu j flesh; but if other 

Ithough there is 

i spared not even 
:ir comfort. He 
ime when I was 

i that you are so 
:hat it is the will 
I or I, but I live 


mber of ir 

>uld . : 

evidently have got 

us Hussars. I don't think that the ol 
cers who were in charge of us could ai 
that, they being nearly all infantry of 

cers, and consequently understanding but I were cut off by Ihi 
little of the cavalryman's horse and his | being attached to a 
powers of endurance. Had we gone to , I am ashamed to na 
Abu Hamed we should all have perished. | ourst ' 
r horses were done up, and could 1 unfoi 

E thousand miles be- 

n all probability staying here 

tacnment until August, so the rumor 

, at any rate the campaign Is pracli- 

at a standstill until the intensely hot 

ler months have passed. We have 

fairly lucky ourselves, inasmuch as 

ilal loss has not eiiceeded three — I 

our regiment. J learn that we have 

Ight gallant iellows at Suakim, who 

" ' ' much blame 

otScer, whom 

ime. We are building 

a on the bank of this 

Lord Wolse 

>t have galloped one hundred yards had J Redvers Buller iospecied ua on Wednes- 



day last, when his lordship spoke highly 
of the gallantry of all troops in general, 
but especially of the 19th, whose smart- 
ness and excellence of work proved itself 
wherever it went. He enlarged on our 
detachment especially, who went throuj^h 
peculiar dangers in many ways, especially 
scouting. I must now conclude with very 
best love, as the mail leaves here in five 
P.S. — We get no papers here. 

Good Friday, 1885, Merawi, Soudan. 

My dear Brother, — This is in an- 
swer to yours of March 4, 18S5. I am 
glad to hear from you, as it is so scarce a 
thing, owing, as you say, to pressure of 
business ; and to find that you are enjoy- 
ing good health, again to which 1 can say 
amen. My correspondence this mail is 
somewhat weighty, owing to a receipt of 
six letters and a Mercury of Valentine's 
Day, in which I read with some interest 
the account of our little, though impor- 
tant, battle of Kerbeka. 1 see also that, 
as usual, through all our three campaigns, 
the poor public-forgotten 19th Hussars 
has no mention, excepting that it cap- 
tured the enemy's camp before their posi- 
tion was taken, with twenty banners, of 
which twenty I am the possessor of one. 
The account of General Earle's death is 
somewhat exaggerated. The real thing 
is this. After the whole of the position 
was taken, Earle went up the rocks to 
inspect a small hut (mud) in which some 
rebels were suspected to be secreted. He 
was warned not to do so, but he poked 
his head in at the hole used for a window, 
put it out again, and beckoned to some 
one below. Again he put his head in at 
the fatal window, and as he withdrew it 
and looked around again, the muzzle of a 
rifle was placed close to the back of the 
general's head, and the vagabond inside 
blew his brains out, the charge coming 
out at the front of his helmet; the fellow 
then threw the rifle at him. The man 
was brought out of the house by Major 
Slade, of the intelligence department, and 
was instantly cut into a hundred pieces. 
There was another house found with a 
horse and camel, and inside were twenty* 
six men and their store of ammunition, 
and the whole lot were burnt alive in the 
house, and blown to atoms by the contin- 
uous exploding ammunition ; the horse 
and camel were also burnt to a cinder; so 
that really, you see, the general met with 
his death through inadvertence. He was 
a brave man, and deserves all credit. 
When our column marched out on that 
eventful Pancake Day we Hussars scouted 
away in front of all; next came the poor 

general leading the infantry, amongst 
whom was Colonel Eyre, of the Stafford- 
shire regiment, notable in that he rose 
from the ranks; and when the general 
gave the order to charge the enemy. Eyre 
was the first up the hill, and turning round 
he shouted, '* Come on, you men of Staf- 
fordshire ; ril take this point or die in the 
attempt;'' upon which the men rushed up 
the hill and took it gallantly, and bayo- 
neted every Arab in it; but the brave old 
colonel was shot down. We knew that 
the two regiments who accompanied us 
that morning were tried and experienced 
men, and therefore had great faith in ulti- 
mate conquest. Our little party of cav- 
alry went on, shooting and capturing the 
fugitives, who made for the hills, but few 
reached them. At one time 1 was sent to 
the top of a pile of rocks to reconnoitre 
the surrounding country, when, casually 
looking round, I beheld to my horror an 
Arab spearman lying concealed in a cleft 
of the rock. My first impulse was to 
raise my carbine and send his soul to that . 
place where all good niggers go, but on 
second thought I lowered it again, think- 
ing he might be useful for information, 
etc. So I disarmed him and sent him 
down the rocks to my comrades below, 
who took him prisoner. That day 1 found 
two old Tower rifles (flintlocks) — how- 
ever they got up here; two banners, one 
of which I am keeping, and several knives 
of all descriptions, and spears, etc., etc. 

I am the recipient of six letters, as I 
told you : one from mother, one from 
yourself, one from George, one from Al- 
ice, one from Tom Gregory, who addresses 
me as corporal, and one from my chum, 
who is in Abbassiyeh, and concerning 
whom 1 have written to mother before. 
He was not able to come up with the reg- 
iment, owing to sickness. Our work here 
in Merawi is somewhat stiff, owing to the 
small number of men stationed here. The 
Black Watch only numbers about five 
hundred, and indeed the whole of us, all 
arms, do not number a thousand. We 
are well defended from a sudden rush of 
the enemy (who may come here from 
across the desert at any moment) by two 
forts, and three rows of wire entangle- 
ments which surround the camp. One 
fort is a little redoubt away to the north- 
east of the camp, and christened Fort St. 
Andrew, in honor of the patron saint of 
Scotland, the 42nd (Black Watch) having 
built it themselves. At this juncture I 
must confine my remarks, although 1 could 
send you much more. 

William H. Saunders, 
G Troop ^ 19/A Hussar s. 



From Chamber^ Journal. 


Mrs. Cavendish lived in ooe of the 
great houses in Portland Place which fash- 
ion has abandoned. It was very silent, 
wrapped in that stillness and - decorum 
which is one of the chief signs of an en- 
tirely well-regulated house, also of a place 
in which life is languid and youth does not 
exist. Frances followed her mother with 
a beating heart through the long wide hall 
and large staircase, over soft carpets, on 
which their feet made no sound. She 
thought they were stealing in like ghosts 
to some silent place in which mystery of 
one kind or other must attend them ; but 
the room they were ushered into was only 
a very large, very still drawing-room, in 
painfully good order, inhabited by nothing 
but a fire, which made a little sound and 
flicker that preserved it from utter death. 
The blinds were drawn half over the win- 
dows ; the long curtains hung down in 
dark folds. There were none of the 
quaintnesses, the modern sestheticisms, 
the crowds of small picturesque articles 
of furniture impeding progress, in which 
Lady Markham delighted. The furniture 
was all solid, durable — what upholsterers 
call very handsome — huge mirrors over 
the mantelpieces, a few large portraits in 
chalk on the walls, solemn ornaments on 
the table ; a large and brilliantly painted 
china flower-pot enclosing a large plant of 
the palm kind, dark green and solemn, like 
everything else, holding the place of 
honor. It was very warm and comforta- 
ble, full of low easy-chairs and sofas, but 
at the same time very severe and forbid- 
ding, like a place into which the common 
occupations of life were never brought. 

*' She never sits here," said Lady Mark- 
bam in a low tone. " She has a morning 
room that is cosy enough. She comes up 
here after dinner, when Mr. Cavendish 
takes a nap before conning his briefs for 
the ensuing day ; and he comes up at *ten 
o'clock for ten minutes and takes a cup 
of tea. Then she goes to bed. That is 
about all the intercourse they have, and 
ail the time the drawing-room is occupied, 
except when people come to call. That is 
why it has such a depressing look." 

"Is she not happy, then ?" said Fran- 
ces wistfully, which was a silly question, 
as she now saw as soon as she had uttered 

" Happy ! Oh, probably just as happy 
as other people. That is not a question 

that is ever asked in society, my dear. 
Why shouldn't she be happy? She has 
everything she has ever wished for — 
plenty of money — for they are very rich 
— her husband quite distinguished in his 
sphere, and in the way of advancement. 
What could she want more? She is a 
lucky woman, as women go.'' 

" Still she must be dull, with no one to 
speak to," said Frances, looking round her 
with a glance of dismay. What she 
thought was, that it would probably be her 
duty to come here to make a little society 
for her aunt, and her heart sank at the 
sight of this decent, nay, handsome gloom, 
with a sensation which Mariuccia's kitch- 
en at home, which only looked on the 
court, or the dimly lighted rooms of the 
villagers, had never given her. The si- 
lence was terrible, and struck a chill to 
her heart. Then all at once the door 
opened, and Mrs. Cavendish came in, tak- 
ing the young visitor entirely by surprise; 
for the soft carpets and thick curtains so 
entirely shut out all sound, that she 
seemed to glide in like a ghost to the 
ghosts already there. Frances, unaccus- 
tomed to English comfort, was startled by 
the absence of sound, and missed the in- 
dication of the footstep on the polished 
floor, which had so often warned her to 
lay aside her innocent youthful visions at 
the sound of her father's approach. 
Mrs. Cavendish coming in so softly 
seemed to arrest them in the midst of 
their talk about her, bringing a flush to 
Frances's face. She was a tall woman, 
fair and pale, with cold gray eyes, and an 
air which was like that of her rooms — the 
air of being unused, of being put against 
the wall like the handsome furniture. She 
came up stiffly to Lady Markham, who 
went to meet her with effusion, holding 
out both hands. 

'* I am so glad to see you, Charlotte. I 
feared you might be out, as it was such a 
beautiful day." 

"Is it a beautiful day? It seemed to 
me cold, looking out. I am not very en- 
ergetic, you know — not like you. Have 
I seen this young lady before ?" 

•* You have not seen her for a long time, 
not since she was a child ; nor I either, 
which is more wonderful. This is Fran- 
ces. Charlotte, I told you I expected — " 

" My brother's child ! " Mrs. Cavendish 
said, nxing her eyes upon the girl, who 
came forward with shy eagerness. She 
did not open her arms, as Frances ex- 
pected. She inspected her carefully and 
coldly, and ended by saying, " But she is 
like you," with a certain tone of reproach. 



" That is not my fault," said Lady 
Markham, almost sharply ; and then she 
added : ** For the matter of that, they are 
both your brother's children — though, 
unfortunately, mine too." 

'* You know my opinion on that matter," 
said Mrs. Cavendish ; and then, and not 
till then, she ^ave Frances her hand, and 
stooping, kissed heron the cheek. **Your 
father writes very seldom, and I have 
never heard a word from you. All the 
same, I have always taken an interest in 
you. It must be very sad for you, after 
the life to which you have been accus- 
tomed, to be suddenly sent here without 
any will of your own." 

" O no," said Frances. " I was very 
glad to come, to see mamma." 

*' That's the proper thing to say, of 
course," the other said with a cold smile. 
There was just enough of a family like- 
ness to her father to arrest Frances in her 
indignation. She was not allowed time to 
make an answer, even had she possessed 
confidence enough to do so, for her aunt 
went on, without looking at her again : ** I 
suppose you have heard from Constance? 
It must be difficult for her too, to reconcile 
herself with the different kind of life. My 
brother's quiet ways are not likely to suit 
a young lady about town." 

** Frances will be able to tell you all 
about it," said Lady Markham, who kept 
her temper with astonishing self-control. 
"She only arrived last night. I would 
not delay a moment in bringing her to 
you. Of course, you will like to hear. 
Markham, who went to fetch his sister, is 
of opinion that on the whole the change 
will do Constance good." 

*' I don't at all doubt it will do her good. 
To associate with my brother would do 
any one good — who is worthy of it ; but of 
course it will be a great change for her. 
And this child will be kept just long 
enough to be infected with worldly ways, 
and then sent back to him spoilt for his 
life. I suppose. Lady Markham, that is 
what you intend?" 

'* You are so determined to think badly 
of me," said Lady Markham, ** that it is 
vain for me to say anything; or else I 
might remind you that Con's going off 
was a greater surprise to me than to any 
one. You know what were my views for 
her ? " 

" Yes. I rather wonder why you take 
the trouble to acquaint me with your 
plans," Mrs. Cavendish said. 

*'It is foolish, perhaps; but I have a 
feeling that as Edward's only near rela- 
tion " 

" Oh, I am sure I am much obliged to 
you for your consideration," the other 
cried quickly. ** Constance was never in- 
fluenced by me ; though 1 don't wonder 
that her soul revolted at such a marriage 
as you had prepared for her." 

" Why ? " cried Lady Markham quickly, 
with an astonished glance. Then she 
added with a smile: " I am afraid you will 
see nothing but harm in any plan of mine. 
Unfortunately, Con did not like the gen- 
tleman whom 1 approved. I should not 
have put any force upon her. One can't 
nowadays, ii one wished to. It is con- 
trary, as she says herself, to the spirit of 
the times. But if you will allow me to 
say so, Charlotte, Con is too like her 
father to bear anything, to put up with 
anything that " 

** Thank heaven," cried Mrs. Cavendish, 
'* she is indeed a little like her dear father, 
notwithstanding a training so different. 
And this one, 1 suppose — this one you 
find like you?" 

'* I am happy to think she is a little, in 
externals at least," said Lady Markham, 
taking Frances's hand in her own. '* But 
Edward has brought her up, Charlotte; 
that should be a passport to your affec- 
tions at least." 

Upon this, Mrs. Cavendish came down 
as from a pedestal, and addressed herself 
to the girl, over whose astonished head 
this strange dialogue had gone. '*I am 
afraid, my dear, you will think me very 
hard and disagreeable," she said. ** I will 
not tell you why, though I think I could 
make out a case. How is your dear fa- 
ther? He writes seldomer and seldomer 
— sometimes not even at Christmas; and 
I am afraid you have little sense of family 
duties, which is a pity at your age." 

Frances did not know how to reply to 
this accusation, and she was confused and 
indignant, and little disposed to attempt 
to please. " Papa," she said, " is very 
well. I have heard him say that he could 
not write letters — our life was so quiet 
there was nothing to say." 

".Ah, my dear, that is all very well for 
strangers, or for those who care more 
about the outside than the heart. But he 
might have known that anything, every- 
thing, would be interesting to me. It is 
just your quiet life that I like to hear 
about. Society has little attraction for 
mc. I suppose you are half an Italian, 
are you ? and know nothing about English 

"She looks nothing but English," said 
Lady Markham in a sort of parenthesis. 

"The only people I know are English/' 



said Frances. *' Papa is not fond of so- 
ciety. We see the Gaunts and the Du- 
rants, but nobody else. I have always 
tried to be like my own country-people, as 
well as I could." 

"And with great success, my dear," 
said her mother, with a smiling look. 

Mrs. Cavendish said nothing, but looked 
at her with silent criticism. Then she 
tamed to Lady Markham. ** Naturally,'* 
she said, ** I should like to make acquaint- 
ance with my niece, and hear all the de- 
tails about my dear brother ; but that can't 
be done in a morning call. Will you leave 
her with roe for the day? Or may I have 
ber to-morrow, or the day after? Any 
time will suit me.*' 

** She only arrived last night, Charlotte. 
I suppose even you will allow that the 
mother should come first. Thursday, 
Frances shall spend with you, if that suits 
you ? " 

•* Thursday, the third day," said Mrs. 
Cavendish, ostentatiously counting on her 
fingers, "during which interval you will 

have full time O yes, Thursday will 

suit me. The mother of course conven- 
tionally has, as you say, the first right." 

" Conventionally and naturally too," 
Lady Markham replied; and then there 
was a silence, and they sat looking at each 
other. Frances, who felt her innocent 
self to be something like the bone of con- 
tention over which these two ladies were 
wrangling, sat with downcast eyes con- 
fused and indignant, not knowing what to 
do or say. The mistress of the house did 
nothing to dissipate the embarrassment of 
the moment; she seemed to have no wish 
to set her visitors at their ease, and the 
pause, during which the ticking of the 
clock on the mantelpiece and the occa- 
sional fall of ashes from the fire came in 
as a sort of chorus or symphony, loud and 
distinct, to fill up the interval, was half 
painful, half ludicrous. It seemed to the 
quick ears of the girl thus suddenly intro- 
duced into the arena of domestic conflict, 
that there was a certain irony in this in- 
articulate commentary upon those petty 
miseries of life. 

At last, at the end of what seemed half 
an hour of silence. Lady Markham rose 
and spread her wings — or at least shook 
out her silken draperies, which comes to 
the same thing. "As that is settled, we 
need not detain you any longer," she said. 

Mrs. Cavendish rose too, slowly. " I 
cannot expect," she replied, "that you will 
give up your valuable time to me; but 
mine is not so much occupied. I will ex- 
pect you, Frances, before one o'clock on 

Thursday. I lunch at one; and then if 
there is anything you want to see or do, I 
shall be glad to take you wherever you 
like. I suppose I may keep her to din- 
ner? Mr. Cavendish will like to make 
acquaintance with his niece." 

" Oh, certainly ; as long as you and she 
please," said Lady Markham with a smile. 
" I am not a mediaeval parent, as poor Con 

"Yet it was on that ground that Con- 
stance abandoned you and ran away to 
her father," quoth the implacable antag- 

Lady Markliam, calm as she was, grew 
red to her hair. " I don't think Constance 
has abandoned roe," she cried hastily; 

"and if she has, the fault is But 

there is no discussion possible between 
people so hopelessly biased as you and I," 
she added, recovering her composure. 
"Mr. Cavendish is well, I hope?" 

" Very well. Good-morning, since you 
will go," said the mistress of the house. 
She dropped another cold kiss upon Fran- 
ces's cheek. It seemed to the girl, indeed, 
who was angry and horrified, that it was 
her aunt's nose, which was a long one and 
very chiJly, which touched her. She made 
no response to this nasal salutation. She 
felt, indeed, that to give a slap to that 
other cheek would be much more expres- 
sive of her sentiments than a kiss, and 
followed her mother down-stairs hot with 
resentment. Lady Markham, too, was 
moved. When she got into her brougham, 
she leaned back in her corner and put her 
handkerchief lightly to the corner of each 
eye. Then she laughed, and put her hand 
upon Frances's arm. 

"You are not to think I am 
she said ; " it is only rage. Did you ever 

know such a But, my dear, we must 

recollect that it is natural — that she is on 
the other side.^^ 

"Is it natural to be so unkind, to be so 
cruel ? " cried Frances. " Then, mamma, 
I shall hate England, where I once thought 
everything was good." 

"Everything is not good anywhere, my 
love; and society, I fear, above all, is far 
from being perfect — not that your poor 
dear aunt Charlotte can be said to be in 
society," Lady Markham added, recover- 
ing her spirits. " I don't think they see 
anybody but a few lawyers like them- 

" But, mamma, why do you go to see 
her? VVhy do you endure it? You prom- 
ised for me, or I should never go back, 
neither on Thursday nor any other time." 

" Oh, for goodness' sake, Frances, my 





dear ! I hope you have not got those 
headstrong Wariog ways. Because she 
hates me, that is oo reason why she should 
hate you. Even Con saw as much as that. 
You are of her own blood, and her near 
relation, and I never heard that he took 
very much to any of the young people on 
his side. And they are very rich. A 
man like that, at the head of his profes- 
sion, must be coining money. It would 
be wicked of me, for any little tempers of 
mine, to risk what might be a fortune for 
my children. And you know I have very 
little more than my jointure, and your 
father is not rich." 

This exposition of motives was like an* 
other language to Frances. She gazed at 
her mother's soft face, so full of sweetness 
and kindness, with a sense that she was 
under the sway of motives and influences 
which had been left out in her own simple 
education. Was it supreme and selt-de- 
Dying generosity, or was it — something 
else? The girl was too inexperienced, 
too ignorant to tell. But the contrast be- 
tween Lady Markham*s wonderful temper 
and forbearance and the harsh and un- 
generous tone of her aunt, moved her 
heart out of the region of reason. "If 
you put up with all that for us, I cannot 
see any reason why we should put up with 
it for you ! " she cried indignantly. ** She 
cannot have any right to speak to my 
mother so — and before me." 

" Ah, my darling, that is just the sweet- 
ness of it to her. If we were alone, I 
should not mind ; she might say what she 
liked. It is because of you that she can 
make me feel — a little. But you must 
take no notice ; you must leave me to 
fight my own battles." 

"Why?" Frances flung up her young 
bead, till she looked about a foot taller 
than her mother. " I will never endure 
it, mamma: vou may say what you like. 
What is her fortune to me?" 

" My love ! " she exclaimed ; " why, you 
little savage, her fortune is everything to 
you! It may make all the difference." 
Then she laughed rather tremulously, and 
leaning over, bestowed a kiss upon her 
stranger child's half-reluctant cheek. " It 
is very, very sweet of you to make a stand 
for your mother," she said, " and when 
you know so little of me. The horrid 
people in society would say that was the 
reason ; but I think you would defend 
your mother anyhow, my Frances, my 
child that I have always missed ! But 
look here, dear. You must not do it. I 
am old enough to take care of myself. 
And your poor aunt Cavendish is not so 

bad as you think. She believes she has 
reason for it. She is very fond of your 
father, and she has not seen him (ox a 
dozen years ; and there is no telling 
whether she may ever see him again; and 
she thinks it is my fault. So you must 
not take up arms on my behalf till you 
know better. And it would be so much 
to your advantage if she should take a 
fancy to you, my dear. Do you think I 
could ever reconcile myself, for any amour 
Propre of mine, to stand in my child's 
way ? " 

Once more, Frances was unable to 
make any reply. All the lines of senti- 
ment and sense to which she had been 
accustomed seemed to be getting blurred 
out. Where she had come from, a family 
stood together, shoulder by shoulder. 
They defended each other, and even re- 
venged each other; and though the law 
might disapprove, public opinion stood by 
them. A child who looked on careless 
while its parents were assailed would have 
been to Mariuccia an odious monster. 
Her father's opinions on such a subject, 
Frances had never known ; but as for for- 
tune, he would have smiled that disdainful 
smile of his at the suggestion that she 
should pay court to any one because he 
was rich. Wealth meant having few 
wants, she bad heard him say a thousand 
times. It might even have been supposed 
from his conversation that he scorned 
rich people for being rich, which of course 
was an exaggeration. But he could never, 
never have wished her to endeavor to 
please an unkind, disagreeable person 
because of her money. That was impos- 
sible. So that she made no reply, and 
scarcely even, in her confusion, responded 
to the caress with which her mother 
thanked her for the partisanship, which it 
appeared was so out of place. 

From The National Review. 



In a passage of his "Life of Byron," 
interesting as giving a poet's estimate of 
the inspiring forces of his age, Moore 
describes the effects of the drama of the 
French Revolution on contemporary im- 

There are those [says he] who trace, in the 


peculiar character of Lord Byron's genius, etry, It also gave birth to the more enduring 

strong features of relationship to the times in movement of romance in philosophical 

which he lived; who think that the great thought. The outburst of liberty and the 

events which marked the close of the last cen- expansion of genius, coinciding as they 

tury. by giving a new impulse to mens minds, ^-^ ^.^j, ^^e advance of democracy, en- 

^L .iin"fn^^^^^^^^ tn%hT"LTh .nS n.^f' couragcd the Spread of the optimism cher- 
and allowing full vent to the iiasn and out- . , ,'^ 11^1*^ t'l u u j • j 
break of fierv spirits," had naturally led to the '^hed by all the philosophers who derived 
production of such a poet as Bvron ; and that ^heir descent from Rousseau. A beliet 
he was in short as much the child and repre- in the unlimited progress of the human 
sentative of the Revolution, in poesy, as an- race took possession of most reflecting 
other great man of the age, Napoleon, was in minds. The vast development of physi- 
statesmanship and warfare. Without going cal science, and the revolution which this 
the full length of this notion, it will, at least, entailed in man's circumstances, were sup- 
be conceded, that the free loose which had posed to be accompanied by a correspond- 
bcen given to all the passions and energies o • enlargement of his virtue, his wisdom, 
the human mind, m the great struggle of that ^^°, r /*:„ «^,«^,«i ..^„.«,- n^^A^^^J* 
period, together with the constant ipectacle of ^°^ ^^^ ^1« corporal powers. Condorcet 
Such astounding vicissitudes as were passing, assured his disciples that they might hope 
almost daily, on the theatre of the world, had 'or the unlimited prolongation of life, 
created, in all minds, and in every walk of in- Shelley, treading in the steps of his 
teliect, a taste for strong excitement, which the French masters, insisted that, if we could 
stimulants supplied from ordinary sources were only get rid of the debasing superstitions 
insuflicient to gratify; that a tame deference of Christianity, we might expect to be- 
to established authorities had fallen into dis- come perfectly good and happy. Others, 
repute, no less in literature than in politics. ^^ heighten the charms of the smiling 
and that the poet who should breathe into his p^Qs ect, indulged the idea that as man 
songs the fierce and passionate spirit of the ^ j .• j • *i • i-r * j 1 »i 
agefand assert, untrammelled and unawed, the ^" destined in this life to develop mora 
high dominion of genius, would be most sure ^"^ physical capacities far in advance of 
of an audience toned in sympathy with his anything he could at present conceive, so 
strains. be might look forward to the conquest 

and possession of untold treasures of art, 
Dull, indeed, must the spirit have been latent in a new world of imagination, 
which failed to catch some inspiring fervor Prominent among these sanguine proph- 
from the atmosphere of those extraordi- ets was Wordsworth. Like many other 
nary times. The ages of romantic action enthusiastic young men of talent he had 
seemed to have revived. While historic hailed the beginning of the French Revo- 
dynasties were overthrown in a single lution, and had excused as natural its 
night, while every common soldier felt bloody excesses. Even when its true 
that he might carry his marshal's dd/on in nature dawned on his mind, and he saw 
his knapsack, while obscure adventurers that the Jacobin movement was directed 
seated themselves on the most ancient against the cause of liberty, he retained a 
thrones of Europe, it would have been chastened faith that the future would be- 
strange if imagination had been anything hold the realization of the glowing hopes 
but romantic. Byron may be the best and visions in which he had indulged. So 
poetical representative of the revolution- noble a principle as liberty, he felt sure, 
ary forces of the period, but he is by no could not fail to be the pioneer of moral 
means the only one. Their influence is progress, and always in the van of human 
equally visible in the fire and flow of Shel- movement he saw the poet's imagination 
ley's verse. The romantic spirit, indeed, cheering on the race to fresh conquests, 
makes itself felt in the work of those Arguing against those who entertained a 
whose temper is most opposed to the rev- contracted and artificial view of the nature 
olutionary movement. Campbell, who in of poetry, and who adhered to the current 
another age would probably have had to theories of poetic diction, — 
rest content with such reputation as he 

might have acquired from " The Pleasures The objects [he cried] of the poet's thoughts 

of Hope," is inspired with "The Battle of are everywhere; though the eyes and senses 

the Baltic " and » Hohenlinden ; " while if 9^ "^.^" /"if' '^ 'I '^"^' ^'* favorite guides, yet 

B ..^« .-»«.. u^ ^i'^:*.*^^^ ^o tu^ et^o/«;oi f^uwA he will follow wherever he can find an atmo- 
lyron may be claimed as tne special child , ^ .• - i,- u ^ u- 

/ •'i-* • * • .- *i 4 sphere of sensation m which to move his 

of cosmopolitanism patriotism can at least ^.^^^^ ... The remotest discoveries of the 

boast of having informed the better part chemist, the botanist, or mineralogist, will be 

of the genius of Scott. as proper objects of the poet's art as any upon 

But while the French Revolution quick- which it can be employed, if the time should 

ened the spirit of romantic actioa in po- ever come when these things shall be familiar 



to us, and the relations under which they are 
contemplated by the followers of their respec- 
tive sciences shall be manifestly and palpably 
material to us as enjoying and suffering beings. 

In these words we find the first applica- 
tion to poetry of the revolutionary theory 
of perpetual progress. The belief is an 
amiable one, but it can scarcely be en- 
tertained without ignoring facts in the 
history of art which raise an entirely dif- 
ferent presumption. Could Wordsworth 
have pointed to a single nation in which 
poetry of the highest order had been pro- 
duced in the full maturity of philosophy 
and natural science? Plato declared that 
there was an old-standing quarrel between 

Chilosophy and poetry, and resolved to 
anish the poets from his ideal republic. 
It would be difficult to name a Greek or 
Latin poet of the highest creative order 
who arose after Aristotle had produced 
his " Physics " or Pliny his " Natural His- 
tory." Galileo was an enthusiastic stu- 
dent of Tasso's poetry, but I never heard 
of any Italian poet who derived his in- 
spiration from the scientific discoveries of 

And, again, if Wordsworth had been 
asked to account, on his hypothesis of 
constant progress in poetry, for the ex- 
treme regularity of the phenomena that 
mark the rise, development, and decline 
of the art, it is difficult to see what answer 
be could have returned. The golden age 
of poetical production is as a rule confined 
within well-marked epochs of national his- 
tory. Greece has its great epic period; 
its great lyrical period ; its great dramatic 
period ; afterwards comes the age of de- 
cadence, brightened by the genius of The- 
ocritus, and closing with the Anthology. 
Rome produces her Lucretius and Catul- 
lus; then her Horace and Virgil; then 
her Juvenal, and, of course, the inevitable 
epigrammatist, Martial. Dante in Italy 
is followed by Ariosto and Tasso, but in 
the next generation the rage is for Marini. 
Spain's genius was less fertile in poetry, 
but she was the land of chivalry and ro- 
mance, out of which rose the beautiful 
idiom of Cervantes, only to be succeeded, 
however, by the estilo culto of Gongora. 
If poetry in England survived the euphu- 
ism, the mannerism, and the affectation 
which disfigured the poetry of those whose 
attempts to combine the spirit of medi- 
xvalism with the spirit of the Renaissance 
rival the contortions of the Marinis and 
Gongoras of the Continent, this was chiefly 
thanks to the manly genius of Dryden, 
who brought fresh vitality into the art by 
dealing with life and manners according 

to the tradition of Chaucer. And yet, 
genuine as the conservative movement of 
Dryden and his followers was, the En- 
glish imagination felt that something was 
gone, that ** there had passed away a glory 
from the earth." Look at the conclusion 
of the ** Ode on the Poetical Character," 
and see how Collins, the most romantic 
representative of the classical school in 
the eighteenth century, felt as he gazed 
backwards on the vanished ages of imagi- 

I view that oak the fancied glades among, 
By which, as Milton lay, his evening ear. 
From many a cloud that dropped ethereal dew. 
Nigh sphered in heaven, its native strains could 

On which that ancient trump he reached was 
Thither oft, his glory greeting, 
From Waller's myrtle shades retreating, 
With many a vow from Hope's aspiring tongue, 
My trembling feet his guiding steps pursue ; 
In vain — such bliss to .one alone 
Of all the sons of soul, was known ; 
And Heaven and Fancy, kindred powers. 
Have now o*erturned the inspiring bowers. 
Or curtained close such scene from every future 

Such being the feelings of one of 
Wordsworth's immediate predecessors — 
and CoUins's complaint is repeated in vari- 
ous forms by Gray and Cowper — it seems 
strange that the founder of the new ro- 
mantic school should have cherished so 
firm a persuasion of the boundless re- 
sources of poetry. A closer examination 
of his views, however, renders his conclu- 
sions less surprising. He believed that 
the English poets had been long following 
a false track, and that, he had himself dis- 
covered the only true principles of poeti- 
cal composition. The old-fashioned poet 
may be said to resemble the Demiurgus 
of Plato's "Timasus." Creator as he is, 
he creates not the subject matter of his 
art, which he finds already existing chaot- 
ically in the mind of his nation, but the 
ideal form and order in which those scat- 
tered ideas must be presented to the peo- 
ple. This realm of national imagination 
has a natural tendency to contract. Sci- 
entific methods of thought deprive it of 
much ground over which, in the infancy 
of society, it was accustomed to range 
with perfect freedom. The growth of 
commerce, and of artificial manners, ex- 
tinguishes the local life, customs, and 
traditions out of which, during the active, 
warlike ages, are woven ballad poetry and 
romance. And not only does the ground 
i of imagination contract before the en- 



croachment of external forces, but it is 
occupied as property by the elder poets, 
so that La Bruy^re has some reason for 
his complaint : ** Les anciens ont tout dit ; 
on vient aujourd'hui trop tard pour dire 
des choses nouvelies." 

To these considerations, however, 
Wordsworth's answer was simple. He 
held that the real source of poetry is the 
mind of the individual poet, and that all 
feelings and impressions which it receives 
from the outside world become proper 
subject matter for poetry after passing 
through the crucible of imagination. 
Hence his conclusion, "Poetry is immor- 
tal as the heart of man," since nature is 
boundless, and the poet is at perfect lib- 
erty to cast his impressions into an imag- 
inative mould just as his individual caprice 
may dictate. Of course, if this be really 
so^ cadtt qucestio; because, as the impres- 
sions of every individual are different, the 
number of metrical combinations in which 
they can be expressed will be infinite. 

But is it so? Look at the poetry of 
Wordsworth himself, and see how his 
theory works out. \l all the poems in- 
cluded in his published works were com- 
posed on his own principle, and were 
valuable in themselves, his reasoning 
would be colorable, for in mere bulk his 
metrical writings are weighty enough. 
When, however, these are classified, we 
find that one large group, containing 
among others such noble poems as ** Lao- 
damia," and the " Ode on I mmortality," is 
composed on the old lines, the poet hav- 
ing founded his subject on universal asso- 
ciations, and simply cast them into an 
ideal form. Of another large class, such 
as ••The Excursion," "The Prelude," 
'•The White Doe of Rylstone," and ♦» Pe- 
ter Bell," we may say that they are so 
entirely wanting in the primary qualities 
of poetical design, unity, and proportion, 
that, whatever individual beauties they 
may possess, they have no title to be con- 
sidered works of art. Wordsworth him- 
self pronounces judgment on compositions 
of this kind when he says that their chief 
justification lies in their moral purpose. 
Mark, however, his admission : ^'' Not thai 
I always de^an to write with a distinct 
purpose formally conceived^ But no ex- 
tensive work of art is worth anything that 
is not so conceived, because it is impossi- 
ble that it can be an ideal whole. And 
yet once more, observe that striking char- 
acteristic which Coleridge notes in Words- 
worth's poetry. 

I affirm [says he] that from no contemporary 
writer couid so many lines be quoted without 

reference to the poem in which they are found 
for their own independent weight and beauty. 
From the sphere of my own ^experience, I can 
bring to my recollection three persons of no 
every-day powers and acquirements, who had 
read the poems of others with more and more 
unalloyed pleasure, and had thought more 
highly of their authors as poets ; who have yet 
confessed to me that from no modern work 
had so many passages started up anew in their 
minds at different times, and as different occa- 
sions had awakened a different mood. 

Coleridge satisfies himself with record- 
ing this phenomenon without attempting 
to account for it, and yet the explanation 
of it is full of interest from the light it 
throws on Wordsworth's theory of poetry. 
Of all the great English poets, Words- 
worth has, it seems to me, least of the 
faculty of the Demiurgus. Endowed with 
an imagination of remarkable power and 
beauty, he is deficient in the hi<;hest of all 
poetical qualities, invention. His method 
of writing in verse is unlike that of almost 
all his predecessors. Poetry he defines 
to be "the spontaneous overflow of pow- 
erful emotion;'* and this, no doubt, sufii- 
ciently describes his own principle of 
composition which led him, after receiving 
a hint or impulse from the external world, 
immediately to give it expression in me- 
tre. But to the operations of the presid- 
ing faculty of the mind which shapes 
impressions into an ideal whole, admitting 
some and rejecting others, according as 
they are related to a central design, he 
was almost a stranger. His ideas were 
quickly received and sharply returned, in 
individual and isolated forms. Hence, as 
I have already said, his longer poems are 
without form and void : on the other hand 
no man ever employed with more force 
and felicity that mould of poetry which is 
specially adapted for the expression of 
individual thought, namely, the sonnet. 

If Wordsworth's poetry vividly illus- 
trates the practical worth of his theory, 
Coleridge's work shows us the natural 
development of the romantic movement in 
the hands of a genuine inventor. The 
latter had embraced Wordsworth's philos- 
ophy of poetry, of which indeed he was 
the joint author, but being a born artist, 
he dissented from his friend's application 
of it. He agreed with him in deriving 
all poetry from the mind of the individual 
poet, and his love of metaphysics induced 
him to believe that he could penetrate be- 
hind the veil of sense, and establish a 
transcendental basis for the law of the 
association of ideas. Like Wordsworth, 
too, he was transported with a belief in 



the boundless ranc^e of the imagination, 
and was an enthusiast for its perfect lib- 
erty. "How oft," he cries, in the fine 
opening of his "France " — 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 

My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I 

Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable 

sound ! 
O ye loud waves ! and O ye forests high I 

And O ye clouds that far above me soared I 
Thou rising sun ! thou blue rejoicing sky 1 
Yea, everything that is and will be free ! 
Bear witness for me wheresoever ye be, 
With what deep worship I have still adored 
The spirit of divinest Liberty 1 

And yet the recipient of all these varied 
impressions has left only four poems with 
which his name will be forever associated, 
"The Ancient Mariner," "Christabel," 
" Kubla Kahn," and (on a lower level) 
••The Dark Ladie." What is the cause 
of this comparative sterility in the midst 
of such abundant resources? Partly, no 
doubt, the one usually assigned, want of 
will and resolute purpose. Coleridi^e 
wasted his powers on a multiplicity of de- 
signs which he had never sufficient perse- 
verance to carry into execution. The 
dream of pantisocracy on the banks of 
the Susquehanna, "The Watchman," and 
a hundred vast projects of theology and 
metaphysics, all tell the same tale. In 
poetry, however, it is only fair to remem- 
ber that Coleridge always declared the 
cause of the paucity of his productions 
was not idleness but impotence. In the 
preface to "Christabel," published in 
l8i6, he says: "Since i8oo my poetic 
powers have been till lately in a state of 
suspended animation ;'' and with his pe- 
culiar poetical aims, I hold that the state- 
ment is deserving of entire credit. He 
considered, as I have said, that the ob- 
ject of poetry was to excite subtle trains 
of imaginative associations ; but he was 
not satisfied, like Wordsworth, with sim- 
ply analyzing the impressions of his own 
mind. Feeling in himself the impulse of 
the inventor and creator, he was always 
searching after new " forms." Cowper, in 
••The Task," had been the first to show 
how a poem might be written, by simply 
fellowing out a train of ideas, not embod- 
ied in a definite subject, but naturally con- 
nected with each other, and united by a 
moral purpose. To Coleridge's keen ar- 
tistic perception this plan had not enough 
of unity, and he sought, as he tells us in 
his " liiographia Literaria," to improve on 
it, by taking as his subject a brook, which 

he conceived might be treated, with all its 
associations of ideas, as it widened into a 
river and made its way to the sea. His 
genius, however, was of far too weird and 
romantic an order to succeed in didactic 
poetry, and soon abandoning his enter- 
prise, he set himself to look for •'fresh 
woods " in other directions. Though, of 
course, he would not have admitted any- 
thing of the kind, I think it is evident that 
he next began to reason on the subtle 
affinities between sound and sense, and to 
perceive that isolated romantic images 
might be so linked together by mere met* 
rical movement as to produce the effect 
of unity which the mind requires in an 
ideal creation. He resolved, in fact, de- 
liberately to compose as a "musician." 
We see this very plainly in the beautiful 
fragment entitled '•The Knight's Grave," 
which was confessedly composed as an 
experiment in metre. 

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 

Where may the grave of that good man be ? 
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Hel- 
Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. 
And rustled his leaves in the fall of the year, 
And whistled and roared in the winter alone, 
Is gone, — and the birch in its stead has grown. 
The Knight^s bones are dust, 
And his good sword rust ; 
His soul is with the saints, I trust 

There is very little necessary logical 
connection between the images contained 
in these verses, and yet I should think 
scarcely any one could read them without 
being affected by their subtle pathos. 
Probably the motive of the composition 
was the word •• Helvellyn," which is mu- 
sical in its sound, and, as the name of a 
mountain, carries with it romantic asso- 
ciations. To connect these with the 
grave of a knight was a natural sequence 
of thought, and the disappearance of the 
oak which had once grown in the place of 
the young birch tree, as chivalry had pre- 
ceded the modern order of society, is beau- 
tifully suggestive. But the unity of the 
piece lies in the dactylic movement of the 
metre, which probably came into the poet's 
mind in connection with the name which 
he invented to rhyme with Helvellyn, and 
which is admirably adapted to convey the 
desired feeling. 

So little does the effect of Coleridge's 
poetry depend upon the logical sequence 
of ideas, that of his four really character- 
istic poems, three, viz., "Christabel," 
"Kubla Kahn,"and^*The Dark Udie," 
are fragments ; one " Kubia Kahn," is said 



to have been composed in a dream, while 
••The Ancient Mariner" was founded, so 
far as the bulk of the story is concerned, 
on the dream of a friend. AH this is the 
almost inevitable result of his method of 
composition. He declared, indeed, that 
be had always intended to finish ** Chris- 
tabel," the story bein^ complete in his 
mind, but had he done so, the result must 
have been unsatisfactory, for while in the 
poem, as it is, the mind passes on satis 
fied from one image to another, it is im- 
possible that so wild a tale could ever 
have had a conclusion more rational than 
a dream. '^The Ancient Mariner'' is 
complete, but we do not read it, nor was 
it composed, for the sake of the action or 
the moral. As we know, it was put to- 
gether piecemeal after the manner •oi 
"The Knight's Grave," and the efifect, 
both in this poem and in '* Christabel," is 
produced by the combination of isolated, 
weird, and romantic images in a strange, 
elfin metre. We are not affected by any 
human interest in either story, but by the 
vivid pictures of 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
That dances as often as dance it can, 
Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
On the topmost twig that lookis up at the sky ; 

or of 

The chamber carved so curiously, 
Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
All made out of the carver's brain. 
For a lady*s chamber meet : 
The lamp with twofold silver chain 
Is fastened to an angel's feet ; 

or by such melodies as — 

And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow ; 
Nor any day for food or play. 
Came to the mariner's hollo I 


Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given I 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven. 
That slid into my soul. 

Coleridge is in fact the s^reat musician 
of the romantic school of English poetry. 
His practice is the exact antithesis of 
Wordsworth's theory that there is no es- 
sential difference between the lan^^uage of 
poetry and the language of prose. In 
bim metrical movement is all in all. He 
was the first to depart from the lofty, 
severe iambic movement which had satis- 
fied the feeling of the eighteenth century, 
and, by associating picturesque images 
and antique phrases in melodious and flow- 

ing metres, to set the imagination free in 
a world quite removed from actual experi- 
ence. His invention exercised a profound 
influence upon the course of English 
verse-composition. ** Christabel," as we 
know, inspired the metrical movement 'n 
" The Lay of the Last Minstrel,'* and since 
"The Siege of Corinth '* and " Parisina" 
are obviously prompted by " The Lay of 
the Last Minstrel," Byron's repudiation 
of plagiarism, in " The Siege of Corinth," 
from "Christabel," which had only just 
been published, must be taken as applying 
to the thought, and not to the music of 
the poem. 

An analogous movement, though quite 
in another direction, is observable in the 
poetry of Keats. Keats's method of com- 
position was, in every principle, opposed 
to that of the Lake school. Wordsworth 
and Coleridge regarded liberty as the 
main spring of all human action, and the 
latter, though he was far from putting his 
moral principles into practice, justifies the 
movement of the French Revolution, as I 
have shown in the passage quoted from 
his "France," by the operation of the 
laws of external nature. Similarly it was 
Wordsworth's object in poetry " to choose 
incidents and situations from common life 
. . . and at the same time to throw over 
them a certain coloring of imagination 
whereby ordinary things should be pre- 
sented to the mind in an unusual aspect." 
For this purpose the imagination required 
the sovereign liberty and transmutative 
power which Wordsworth claimed for it, 
and which it could exert with little diffi- 
culty in the midst of the romantic associa- 
tions of the Lake distri\:t. But to Keats, 
the child of London parents, and accus- 
tomed from infancy to the mean and sordid 
routine of city life, nature imparted none 
of those philosophical and moral ideas 
which she aroused in the poet of the 
Cumberland mountains. The liberty of 
the imagination meant for him something 
very different from the revolutionary 
yearnings of the period. 

Though I do not know 
The shifiings of the mighty winds that blow 
Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 
Of men ; though no great ministering reason 

Out the dark mysteries of human souls 
To clear conceiving, yet there ever rolls 
A vast idea before me, and I glean 
Therefrom my liberty ; thence, too, I've seen 
The end and aim of Poesy. 

To the future of humanity which occu- 
pied so large a part of Shelley's thoughts 
he was profoundly indifferent. Fame — 



Fame the last spur that the clear spirit doth 

To spurn delights and live laborious days — 

was the object of bis scornful ridicule; 
human action of any kind — even of the 
romantic ballads that had stirred the heart 
of Sir Philip Sidney " like the sound of a 
trumpet/* and of history that bad inspired 
some of the noblest of Shakespeare's 
dramas — was nothing to him compared to 
the emotion of an ideal love-scene : — 

Hence pageant history I hence gilded cheat ! 
Swart planet in the wilderness of deeds 1 
Wide sea that one continuous murmur breeds 
Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 
Many old rouen-timbered boats there be 
Upon thy vaporous bosom magnified 
To goodly vessels ; many a sail of pride, 
And gokien-kecled is left unlaunched and dry. 
But wherefore this? What care though owl 

did fly 
Above the great Athenian admiral's mast ? 
What care though striding Alexander past 
The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? 
Though old Ulysses tortured from his slum- 

The glutted Cyclops, what care? Juliet lean- 
Amid her windowflowers — sighing — weaning 
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow 
Dotl) mure avail than these: the silver flow 
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 
Are things to brood on with more ardency 
Than the death-day of Empires. 

One cause alone can explain and excuse 
this unblushingly avowed preference for 
the feminine over the masculine motives of 
composition, — namely, physical debility. 
To this indulgence Keats is entitled ; and, 
yet when we think of the fiery spirit that 
has fretted out many a puny body, it is 
difiicult to read without dis«;ust the fol- 
lowing confession of an apparently con- 
tented materialist : — 

This morning I am in a sort of temper indo- 
lent and supremely careless ; I long after a 
stanza or two of Thomson's " Castle of Indo- 
lencQ ; " my passions are all asleep, from my 
having slumbered till nearly eleven, and weak- 
ened the animal fibre all over me to a delight- 
ful sensation about three degrees on this side 
faintness. If I had teeth of pearl, and the 
breath of lilies, I should call it languor ; but as 
I am, I must call it laziness. In this state of 
effeminacy the fibres of the brain are relaxed 
in common with the rest of the body, and to 
such a luppy degree, that pleasure has no show 
of enticement, and pain no unbearable frown ; 
neither Poetry nor Ambition nor Love have 
any alertness of countenance ; as they pass by 
me they seem rather like those figures on a 
Greek urn, two men and a woman, whom no 
one but myself could distinguish in their dis- 

guisement This is the only happiness^ and is 
a rare instance of advantage in the Iwdy over" 
powering the mind. 

We have in this passage a clear index 
of Keats's motive when he was in the com- 
paratively active mood of poetical compo« 
sition. To the vivid and powerful imagi- 
nation which worked within his diseased 
frame, *Mhe vast idea," " the end and aim 
of Poesy," of which he speaks in his lines 
on '' Sleep and Poetry," was to escape 
from the detested surroundings of actual 
life into the ideal world which was ever 
floating before bis mind's eye. In his 
earlier poems he seems to be haunted by 
the fear lest he should die before he had 
time to execute his purpose. The diffi- 
culty was to find a form of metrical com- 
position adapted to the expression of his 
conception. Though, in its repugnance 
to the actual and the real, his imagination 
is akin to that of Coleridge, yet the mind 
of the latter was of a much more energetic 
and manly order, while the metrical music 
which he invented had too much of contin- 
uous action to depict adequately the stead- 
fast and isolated images which Keats's 
fancy loved to evoke. Nor could the 
younger poet make anything of an ex- 
tended narrative in verse. As a story, 
" Endymion " deserves all that its worst 
enemies ever said of it. " Hyperion " 
shows a remarkable advance, but it is well 
that Keats left it a fragment, for it is plain 
that, with his effeminate notion of Apollo, 
he could never have invented any kind of 
action which would have interested the 
reader in learning how the old Titan Sun- 
god was turned out of his kingdom. The 
poem, in its language, challenges com- 
parison with ** Paradise Lost," where 
Milton is confronted with the same diffi- 
culty, yet even he, with all his skill in 
construction and his noble power of rep- 
resenting character, often contends vainly 
against the poverty of human interest and 
incident inherent in his subject. 

Keats evidently felt that in ** Endym- 
ion " he had not reached his **end and 
aim of Poesy." But he was on the right 
track. In ** Sleep and Poetry " he lets us 
see very plainly, though he is himself 
scarcely conscious of the fact, that the 
source of his inspiration is sculpture and 
painting. In looking on a picture by Ti- 
tian, or on the reliefs on a Grecian urn, 
his fancy lit on objects which carried him 
away into a world entirely remote from 
his actual circumstances, and we see him 
in ** Endymion" constantly trying to re- 
produce, in words, the image of some 
landscape or figure which be remembers 



in painting. These isolated pictures, in- 
deed — every one will recall the descrip- 
tion of Adonis asleep, of Cybele drawn 
by her lions, and the beautiful proces- 
sional song of the Bacchanals — are the 
only successful parts of the poem. But 
in his later works he had found his foot- 
hold, and in ''St. Agnes' Eve," the "Ode 
to a Nightingale," the "Ode on a Grecian 
Urn," and other short poems of the same 
kind, he shows that he has discovered a 
group of sculpturesque and picturesque 
subjects — subjects, that is to say, which 
suggest permanent forms in the midst of 
constant material change — on which his 
imagination can work with perfect happi- 
ness and freedom. He has realized his 
own ideal. As he says in the last stanza 
of the " Ode on a Grecian Urn " — 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude I with brede 
Of marble men and maidens overwrought 

With forest branches and the trodden weed ; 
Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of 

As doth eternity : cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain in midst of other woe 

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou 
** Beauty is truth, truth beauty" — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

With what skill he had learned to call 
op a picture in all its distinctness of form 
and color before the imagination, is best 
seen in the opening stanzas of "St. Ag- 
nes' Eve," and in the unrivalled descri{> 
tioD of the painted window in the same 
poem : — 

A casement high and triple-arched there was, 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and branches of knot- 
And diamonded with panes of quaint de- 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked 

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
And twilight saints and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of 
queens and kings. 

It is, in fact, evident that, just as Cole- 
ridge, by an instinctive process, learned 
how to produce musical effects in language 
by combinations of metrical sounds, so 
Keats came gradually to perceive the anal- 
ogy between painting and poetry latent in 
the picturesque associations of individual 
words. We see the tendency betraying 
itself early, in his sonnet on Chapman's 
Homer; in its maturity, in the beautiful 
lines, — 


Charmed magic casements opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn ; 

in the passage that follows, — 

Forlorn I the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self ; 

and in the lines in " Lamia," — 

Then once again the charmed god began 

An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran, 

Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 

And it is carried to its height in the won- 
derful description immediately connected 
with these lines — a passage in which the 
distinctness of the painting is equalled by 
its loathliness — depicting the agony of 
the serpent during her transformation into 
a woman. 

These are remarkable achievements, 
which only those who are insensible to 
the power of genius are likely to under- 
rate. Both Coleridge and Keats must be 
regarded as inventors in the art of poetry, 
and, as we know, Virgil gives inventors of 
all kinds a place beside the poets in Ely- 

Quique pii vates et Phoebo digna locuti ; 
Inventas aut qui vitam excoluere per artes. 

I think it will not be contended that I 
have sought grudgingly to deprive the 
romantic poets of the honors that are 
justly their due. On the other hand, it 
would be the mark of a feeble or a servile 
mind to shrink, either in deference to the 
authority of genius, or in gratitude for the 
boon of novelty, from inquiring whether 
those who in this century have discovered 
fresh arts of metrical composition, have 
always "spoken things worthy of Phoe- 
bus." I must go one step farther. I 
think that men of impartial judgment will 
not deny that whatever results may be 
achieved by the new methods must be 
achieved by the sacrifice of some princi- 
ple which lies at the foundation of what 
the world has agreed to regard as the 
highest kinds of poetry. 

Look at Wordsworth's method, for in- 
stance. There can be no doubt that, by 
carefully watching the individual impres- 
sions made on his own mind by objects in 
the external world, it may be possible for 
a man of genius and imagination to notice 
many subtle beauties which may have 
escaped general observation, and to record 
them in a striking metrical form. But it 
is absolutely essential that if he adopt the 
principle of analysis, he should forego the 
principle of action ; since he cannot form 
his conception in the sphere of imagina- 
tion pure and simple, nor can he give to 


1i Emits and flowers from Amallhea'a hom, 
I l.idiesoi th' E-lesperldes, thai se Fined 
CI than teigned of uld or fabled Hnce 
.itty damsels met in forest wide 
;iilghl uF Logres ur uE Lyones, 


his creation that extension and proportion ' 
which is indispensable to any great ideal 
whole. Moreover, by basing poetry solely 
□n the analysis of his own impressions, | ' 
he necessarily deprives the art of its an. | 
cient tiKia/ influence, because, as Scott 
jjslly says, he can have no guarantee thai ', 
a record of liis individual experience will i 
have power to arouse in the minds of his | i 
hearers those universal associations to ; 
which the great masters oE verse appeal. I 

Again, a man may follow in the track of I 
Coleridge and Kcals, and make it his 
chief aim to (ouch the imagination by dis- 
covering new associations of metrical 
sound, or fresh combinations of pictur- 
eHque words. But do not let it be argued 
that those who devote themselves to this 
pursuit are enlarging the boundaries of 
the art, when in (act they are sensibly 
contracting Ihem. Poetry contains in It- 
self the principles of painting, sculpture, 
and music, but, in its highest forms, it 
only develops and employs these for the 
representation of some human interest 
and action. For instance, the passage in 
the ■■ Penseroso : " — 

Oft on a plot of rising ground 

I hear the far -off curfew sou nit. 

Over some wide-watered shore, 

Swinging slow with Sullen roar ; 

Or if the air will not permit. 

.r Pellea 

.r Pelicn 


will tit, 

Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light lo counterfeit a gloom. 
Far from all resort of mirth, 

Ur the bellman's drowsy charm 

To bless the doors Erom nightly harm. 

Here is the law of association at work 

in all its pouer, a number of apparently 
unconnected images being combined, as 
in " Chrislabel," in a musical metre ; but, 
unlike " Christabel," the unity of the poem 
lies, not in the music, but in the thought, 
namely, the descriplioa of the features of 

As lo painting, there is almost as much 

whole poem of Keats, and yet with Iliem 
the simile is merely a halling-place for 
repose in the midst of a swiEt narrative 
of ideal action. Is Uiere anything in 
Keats that can match the following as a 
picture.' — 

And at a stalely sideboard, by the wine 
That fragrant smell diffused, in order stood 
Tall stripling youths tich-clad, oE Eairer hue 
Than Ganymed or llylas ; distant more 
Under the trees, no* tripped now solemn stood 
Nymphs oE Diana's train, and Naiades 

fntlesl gales Arabian odors fanned 
Fiu[ii their soft wings, and Flora's earlieat 

liut will anybody say that this most 
nobld passage was the motive of "Para- 
rli'e Regained " in the sense that the de- 
sire la produce gorgeous word-colors was 
the motive of •' St. Agnes' Eve " f 

The Dearer poetry approaches lo paint- 
ing, Ilie farthermost it depart from aclioa, 
because a picture can only represent an 
^clion suspended in a single moment of 
time. And if you sacrifice action in poelry, 
you sacrifice all that makes it the noblest 
of the arts, since it alone is able lo con- 
vey to the mind in a rational form an 
idea of the most lofty and energetic pas- 
sions that sway the human heart. Ot 
these Keats knew nothing. With his 
brilliant pictorial fancy, he was able to 
conjure up before his mind's eye all those 
farms of the pagan world which were, by 
his own confession, invisible to Words- 
worth ; but, on the other hand, to the ac- 
tual strife of men, to the clash and conElict 
of opinion, to the moral meaning of the 
changes In social and political life, hewa) 
blind or insensible. Physical science ho 
rej;arded as the enemy of poetry. '■ Oo 
noi all charms," he asks, — 

Do not all charms fly 
At ihe mere touch of cold philosophy > 
I'U'.'ii- was an awful rainbow once in heaven ; 
\\'^ know her woof, her textures ; she is given 
111 [lii: dull catalogue of common things, 
l'i,i|ii-.t)phy will clip an angel's wings, 
I .>Ti.|Lie[ all mvEiicries by rule and line, 
hi'i'iLv the haunted air and gnomed mine. 

These lines appear to me lo contain a 
woikl of suggestion. They speak with 
cq'j.d Eorce, artistically, to CDIhualasta 
lUio, like Wordsworth, contend that the 
s|i'idre of poelry is co-extensive with the 
^pl^ere of nature, and morally (in their 
pes.simism and melancholy) to those other 
I optimists who hold that the resources ot 
art are boundless, so long as it Is pursaed 
simply for its own sake. To detach the 
\ imaiji nation from its proper sphere, from 
I the range of associations in which it can 
, move with natural freedom, and to plunge 
it into the midst of common actual life, i> 


to confuse the limits that separate corr 
sitinD in verse from composition in pre 
while, on -the other hand, to struggli 
get absolutely free from the world of se 
and reality in puratiit of mere beauty of d\{i< 
form, involves a relaxation of all the 
oerves and fibres of manly thought, the 
growth of aSeclalion, and the consequent 
eacouragement of all the emasculating 
influences that produce swift delerioralioti 
and linal decay. 

William John Courthofe. 

Sir, — [£ I presume to endeavor ti 
tide of public opinion as regards the 


q1 controversy, but because 1 am pfrhapa the 
only person living who has commanded squad- 
rons or single ships in war, where torpedoes 
were used as effiHsivt weapons. — [ am, yours 
truly, HoBART Pacha.] 

During the late Turco-Russian war. 
Russian lorpedo-boats constantly attached 
Turkish ships. These attacks were made 
not only by boats armed with the Pole 
and Harvey torpedo, but with the newest 
type of the Whitehead torpedo then ia- 
vented. They were commanded by as 

stepped a ship's deck, and who made 
every possible effort to destroy Turkish 
ironclads, every one of which returr'' 
safely to Coastaniinople after the » 
The only loss to the Turkish squadi 
was two smill wooden gunboats blown up I power 
in the Danube through the carelessness 
of their commanders. 

the torpedo, as a w 
well as of defence, 
gerated. Were it n< 
most say that naval 

come to an end altogether, inasmuch as ; applied 
DO fleet or ship could resist such a deadly ferenl p 
weapoD. Blockade of an enemy's port ' 
could not be maintained. Vessels could 
Dever lie at anchor near an enemy's coast. 
Fleets could not cruise in the neighbor- 
hood of hostile ships carrying torpedo- 
boats. Ports defended by torpedoes could 
not be attacked, harbors and estuaries 
could not be approached; and, in fact, 
none of the old systems of naval warfare 
conid be put into execution. The courage I found by the enemy' 

ipo- j of naval oDicers, their coolness in time of 
ise; action, their seamanlike qualities, of which 
: to some nations are so justly proud, would 
nse be put to a test in a manner altogether 
"" rent from what has hitherto taken 
:. The sailor, although brave and 
cool in a fair fight, would be in constant 
dread of being hurled into the air without 
even the chance of striking a blow or 
firing a shot in sell-defence. The writer 
of this, while commanding squadrons 
manned by men who have not only the 
unsurpassed courage of their race, but 
who have recourse when in danger to the 
almighty word kismet,x^A only think of 
danger after its arrival — had only his 
own humble idea of courage without kis- 
met, and thus felt all the anxiety day and 
night, lor nearly a year, of not knowing at 
what moment he might receive the happy 
despatch by being blown into the air. 
The Russians had, very shortly after I 
confidence j had anchored my squadron in Batoum, 
le pleasure I jau[)(-f,ed several torpedoes at the ships, 
in spile of my having placed guard-boats 
across the entrance of the harbor. One 
of these torpedoes struck the chain of the 
Hag-ship, and went on shore unexploded ; 
another struck on the armored bell of a 
corvette and exploded, but Ihe blow being 
at an angle, it d(d no material injury. Af- 
ter this experience, it was absolutely in- 
cumbent on me lo take some steps for the 
safety of the vessels under my command. 
The means in my power for torpedo de- 
fence were unfortunately very limited, but 
that very fact enabled me to prove that 
necessity is the mother of invention. For 
example, the system which I had seen 
^d adopted with regard to hostile fleets in 
r. ! torpedo defence, comprised a system of 
iclairage which it was entirely out of my 
to employ. Thus, instead of light- 
ly ships, whereby I should have be- 
a target for the enemy, I, from force 
tances, was obliged to maintain 
n reality the far belter system 
rkness from sunset to daylight, 
ow relate in detail the plan I 
a defence in regard to the dif- 
its mentioned above — namely, 
10 be adopted for the safety of 
ships of war while blockading an enemy's 
port, while lying at anchor near an ene- 

borhood of hostile ships blockading. I 
think that Ihe ships should be always, 
when convenient, under way, and with 
their lorpcdo-tiels out, constantly chang- 
ine their positions so as not to be easily 
pedo-boats i no 

n thai the power of 

of circ 

apon of offence as 

what w 

s enormously exag- 

of utle 

1 so, one mfghl al- 

But of 



liojhts whatever should be shown. Should ' 
it be necessary to anchor, I think that the | 
ships should be anchored in small detach- 
ments, and a system of defence arran<^ed 
as follows, placed round each ship or de- 

Boats at a distance of four or five hun- 
dred yards will be placed round the squad- 
ron at anchor. These boats will be con- 
nected toj^ether by wire ropes immersed 
about two feet in the water, and buoyed 
in the centre. The object of this is to 
catch the screw of any attacking torpedo- 
boat. It has been proved that common 
rope, used for want of anything better, 
has effectually checked the career and 
capsized an attacking torpedo-boat in her 
attempt to destroy a Turkish ship in the 
Black Sea during the last war; and I 
know that most satisfactory experiments 
with the wire rope have been made else- 
where. The result of these experiments 
was, that a torpedo-boat, steaming nine- 
teen miles an hour, has capsized while 
dashing full speed on to an imaginary en- 
emy*s ship. 

It seems to me that this system, care- 
fully applied, would prove a most efficient 
and thorough defence against torpedo at- 
tack. I am aware that the present tor- 
pedoes are fitted with screws so sharply 
edged that they would cut through any 
rope placed to stop them. With the 
wire rope this would be impossible. This 
system of defence would apply to single 
ships at anchor in the same way as it 
would apply to a squadron or to a detach- 
ment, and I see no reason why a large num- 
ber of ships should not be protected in a 
similar way — the only question being, 
that the radius would have to be increased 
according to the number of ships, which 
might prove, if overdone, inconvenient, if 
not impossible. Objections might be 
made that in bad weather boats could not 
keep their positions. 1 have had ample 
proof that in bad weather torpedo-boats 
cannot fire with any accuracy. It there- 
fore tells both ways. 

Now as to lying at anchor near an ene- 
my's coast. In this also I have had con- 
siderable experience while at Batoum and 
its neighborhood, where I had frequently 
under my command twelve or fourteen 
ships, against which the Russians con- 
stantly organized torpedo attacks. All 
their attacks were unsuccessful, for the 
following reasons : in the first place, as a 
most gallant Russian officer informed me 
after the war, it was very difficult to find 
Batoum at all. 1 will diverge for a mo- 
ment from my point in order to state that 

an English naval officer of the highest 
rank and position informed me that he had 
tried defence in torpedo warfare, he him- 
self being on board the defending ship, 
and that he found that the torpedo-boats 
so easily discovered his vessel in the 
darkest nights, that, had it been real war* 
fare, she would have been sunk or de- 

Now if a man tries to find a thing in the 
dark in his own bedroom, he can easily 
find it ; but if he goes into another man's 
bedroom, it will puzzle him vastly to put 
his hand upon what he wants. I make 
this comparison because I imagine that 
the attacking torpedo-boats referred to 
by this gallant officer came from the im- 
mediate neighborhood, and knew pretty 
well where the object of their attack was 
lying — knew the bearings and distance 
before they started to attack her, and thus 
had very little difficulty in finding their 
way. The attack by the Russian ships 
on the Turkish squadrons was generally 
made from vessels coming from ports 
two to three hundred miles off, and which, 
on a pitch-dark night, had to find a harbor 
where there were no marks or lights o^ 
any description. Nothing could be seen 
beyond the dark outline of the high moun- 
tains behind the harbor, which were next 
to useless as a guide to the anchorage. 
Moreover, we had a plan of defence at 
Batoum of a most original nature, proving 
again that necessity is the mother of 

The little port of Batoum and its town 
were kept, as I have stated, in perfect 
darkness. The severest penalties were to 
be incurred by those who showed a light 
anywhere, and on several occasions in- 
fractions of that rule were punished with 
great severity. On one occasion we 
caught an old rascal showing a light from 
the window of a house prominently placed 
near the sea. The man was instantly 
seized and bastinadoed. After this, and 
when one or two other examples had 
been made, one might have imagined Ba- 
toum a city of the dead during the night. 
From a spit of land we improvised a 
breakwater, consisting of such trees and 
I spars as we could lay our hands on. 
; These trees and spars were anchored in 
I a line verging towards the beach at a 
\ point. To these trees we nailed numbers 
I of thin planks abreast straight down into 
; the water — so making, as it were, a wall 
I of planks about twelve feet deep. The 
! proof of their efficacy was shown one 
t morning by our finding a hole in the 
I planks, and a torpedo diverged from its 



course lyinpj on the beach. This torpedo 
had not exploded, and, when discovered 
by the guard-boats, was surrounded by 
gaping inhabitants who, in their astonish- 
ment, looked upon this unusual apparition 
as if it were a huge iish still alive and 
moving his tail — that tail being, in fact, 
the screw, which was still in motion. 
This proved that, as we had anticipated, 
the direction of the torpedo had been 
changed on coming into contact with the 
planks; and instead of going among the 
ships at anchor, as was intended, it had 
gone ashore. I think this experience ex- 
ceedingly interesting, as it shows that 
very little will turn the direction of a fish 

On several other occasions attacks were 
made by torpedo-boats on the ships in the 
port of Hatoum, without any result, be- 
yond a loss. to the Russians of three or 
four torpedoes, which were landed on dif- 
ferent parts of the beach, near to which 
the Turkish men-of war were lying at an- 
chor. Some of these torpedoes were in 
such a state of perfection, that Mr. White- 
bead the inventor, knowing that we had 
by their capture become the possessor of 
his secret, made a special contract with 
the Turkish government, whereby he was 
bound to give twenty-five torpedoes at 
cost price, and wherein it was agreed that 
the Ottoman Admiralty were to pay noth- 
ing for the secret (for which other gov- 
ernments were paying from ;^i2,ooo to 
j£ 15,000) so long as they kept it. 

I shall now mention a curious incident 
which happened to a Turkish squadron 
lying at anchor and protected by guard- 
boats, placed somewhat in the manner I 
have already described. I wish my read- 
ers always to remember that the appliances 
against torpedoes in the Turkish fleet 
were of the simplest possible description. 
The squadron consisted of five vessels, 
which had been in the habit of cruising 
every night to avoid torpedo attack. On 
this occasion they had, in consequence of 
the bad weather, returned to their anchor- 
age. A Russian vessel, carrying five tor- 
pedo-boats in tow, started from Odessa 
to hunt for the Turkish squadron, which 
was supposed to be cruising off Serpent 
Island, about eighty miles from Odessa. 
The Muscovites were unable to find their 
enemy, and I don't wonder at it, for even 
had they been cruising off that night, the 
Ottoman ships used smokeless coal, sail- 
ing in open order for safety against col- 
lisions, and without showing any lights. 
The Russian vessel with the torpedo-boats 
being disappointed in finding what she 

wanted at sea, proceeded to the usual 
place of anchorage of the Turkish squad- 
ron off Soulina mouth. Finding the 
weather bad, the commander thought that 
it was best not to attack; but it appears 
that one of the torpedo-boats, in disobe- 
dience of orders, made a dash at the 
Turkish squadron. This particular boat 
was armed with the Pole torpedo. The 
officer in command made a gallant charge 
at the first Turkish vessel he could discern 
through the darkness. As he approached 
her, he found that something all of a sud- 
den stopped his way ; and he saw several 
black objects approaching him. Nothing 
daunted, he struggled to get alongside the 
vessel under her bows. Finding that he 
could not succeed in getting quite close, 
he, in despair, discharged his torpedo, but 
without doing any harm whatever to the 
Turkish ship at which he directed it. 
Scarcely had he done so when (as he de- 
scribed his own sensations afterwards) he 
found himself in the water without know- 
ing by what process he had got there, or 
how in the world it had all happened, — 
the real facts being that the black objects 
he saw were the guard-boats, which were 
being drawn closer and closer to him by 
the ropes that connected them together, 
which ropes fouling his screw had been 
the cause of the disaster. His boat was 
capsized and went to the bottom, whither 
he would have gone too if he had not been 
fished out by the crew of one of the Turk- 
ish guard-boats and taken prisoner. The 
greater part of his crew were drowned. 
The name of this daring young officer was 
Putskin ; and his cool courage was very 
amusing, for when brought before the 
commanding officer of the Turkish squad- 
ron in a half-drowned condition, he could 
only exclaim, in excellent English, ** Why 
the devil didn't I blow up that ship ! " 

He was asked if he had any idea as to 
what stopped him, and it was suggested 
to him that a rope between the guard-boats 
might have fouled his screw. 

"Something of that sort must have 
happened," he answered. ** But why the 
devil didn't 1 blow up that ship ! " 

The poor fellow seemed to have no 
thought regarding the sad plight he was 
in : he only grieved for not having suc- 
ceeded in carrying out his object. 

He explained to me that the other tor- 
pedo-boats which started with him were 
•all armed with the Whitehead torpedo, 
but that // was impossible to use it in bad 
weather. The Pole torpedo might have 
done the deed he was so anxious to per- 
form, and with it he might have succeeded 



in "blowing up that ship." He was too 
plucky a fellow to be allowed to go back 
to the enemy, so we kept him a prisoner 
till the conclusion of the war; and I only 
hope that, for its own sake, the Russian 
Admiralty did not lose sight of such a 
dashing and determined officer. 

While writing on incidents of the war, I 
will mention another interesting occur- 
rence. A Turkish ironclad was lying off 
Soukoum Kali. That place being an open 
roadstead, she was very much exposed, 
and an excellent object for torpedo attack. 
A fast Russian cruiser was always hover- 
ing about, but the cordon of guard-boats 
connected by ropes prevented her torpedo- 
boat from making any. attempt. This 
torpedo-boat was armed with a Harvey 
torpedo. One night there was to have 
been an eclipse of the moon. Now there 
is a superstition among Orientals regard- 
ing an eclipse, which caused the look-out 
to be somewhat relaxed, and the guard- 
boats to be withdrawn, and nearer the 
man-of-war than they should have been — 
in fact, I fear they had gone quite along- 
side, thinking more of the mysterious 
eclipse than of their active enemy. 

As the eclipse only lasted for about a 
couple of hours, the steamer carrying the 
torpedo-boat must have been near in the 
offing, and should have been seen ; al- 
though I found, on inquiry, that the sys- 
tem of no lights and no smoke was carried 
out in the strictest sense by the Russian 
torpedo-carrying vessel. However this 
may be, half an hour after the moon was 
eclipsed the attack was made by a boat 
carrying a Harvey torpedo. This boat 
succeeded in getting so near that she was 
able to make the circuit necessary for 
firing her torpedo, and, though attacked 
by the guard-boats, fired it within ten feet 
of the Turkish ship. A great explosion 
and much smoke was the result. The 
lookers-on on shore telegraphed to Sebas- 
topol that they saw the vessel sink. How- 
ever, so far from that being the case, I 
found, on visiting her two or three days 
afterwards, that, except for a slight mark 
on her side close to the water's edge, no 
damage was done. On the vessel's re- 
turn to Constantinople she was put into 
dock, when it was found that she had 
been very slightly damaged ; in fact it was 
not necessary to change any of her outside 
plates. 1 think that the manoeuvres nec- 
essary to make the Harvey torpedo effica- 
cious render it a weapon on which little 
or no reliance can be placed, unless all 
the hands on board the attacked ship are 
asleep. 1 would rather trust to the Pole 

than to the Harvey torpedo, though I do 
not think that either of them counts for 
much when a sharp look-out is kept. In 
my opinion the most useful torpedo is a 
fixed one, fired either by contact or by 
electric batteries at a distance, especially 
when they are used in defence of the ap- 
proaches to forts, the entrances of har- 
bors, of estuaries, etc. According to 
general opinion, the perfected Whitehead 
or SwartzkofiE torpedo is the only weapon 
for active service at sea. Let us examine 
how they can best be utilized. My opin- 
ion is that for attack they are of very 
doubtful efficacy. I remember on one 
occasion I followed in a very fast frigate 
(my flag-ship) the emperor of Russia's 
yacht Livadia too near to the fire of the 
forts of Sebastopol. I say too near, be- 
cause I drew on my ship such a fire, that, 
had I not " cleared pretty quickly out of 
that," I should not have been here to-day 
to tell the story. Since the war, a Rus- 
sian naval officer, whose name was Captain 
Makaroff, A.D.C. to H.M. the emperor 
of Russia, told me that he had under his 
command seven torpedo-boats, with which 
he volunteered to go out — in the day- 
time it must be remembered — and attack 
me. We discussed at some length the 
probable result, and I think that even he 
admitted that he could have done nothing. 
Here is my view and argument. I said to 
him : " When I saw you and your torpedo- 
boats coming out, I should have run away. 
Now I could go thirteen or fourteen knots. 
You could steam about nineteen. Thus 
your speed following me would have been 
about five knots — no great speed at which 
to approach a vessel armed to the teeth 
with Nordenfeldt guns, guns en barbette 
firing grape, shrapnel, etc. I am con- 
vinced that we should have destroyed all 
the torpedo-boats; and this, I believe, 
would be the fate of any day attack at- 
tempted by them." 

" Well, then," said my friend, " I should 
have followed and attacked you during the 

" There again," I said, " I think that 
you would have failed, because if you had 
been in range of my small guns as well as 
of shell, say at about three thousand yards, 
before dark I should have destroyed you. 
After dark I should have changed my 
course, and how would you have found 
me? However, supposing that I had 
stopped in the night and put down my de- 
fences, what could you have done ? I 
I don't think that a ship can be seen so as 
' to be fired at a distance of more than four 
; hundred yards on a dark night, and a 



moving ship would be a still more difficult 
mark. If a torpedo*boat came nearer than 
four hundred yards, she would have been 
caught by the line of defence, should I 
have thought it prudent to stop." On 
this point we had a long and somewhat 
warm discussion, which ended — at least 
I flattered myself it did — in the Russian 
officer remarking that really he thought, 
after all, that he could have done nothing. 

1 find that naval men have, as a rule, 
great confidence in a system of defence 
against torpedoes by means of nets, and I 
understand that the ingenuity of the age 
has invented a plan enabling a ship to 
steam seven or eight knots without any 
inconvenience from this modern crinoline. 
For my part, I do not ignore the utility of 
this system for want of a better; but I 
hear rumors of torpedoes which will be 
able to attack ships at a point that cannot 
be protected by this plan — namely, under 
the bottom of the ship, where the protect- 
ing net would have no power. 13ut the 
torpedo, of whatever description, is gener- 
ally carried in a boat, and if you can man- 
age to catch or destroy the boat, there is 
ao end of the matter. 

Now with regard to the power of torpe- 
does for attacking purposes. I hear it 
said that during a naval engagement tor- 
pedoes can be utilized to a very great ex- 
tent. In this I am inclined to agree. If 
torpedoes can accompany squadrons and 
act independently either against disabled 
ships or even against ships which might 
be approached unperceived, there can be 
DO doubt that they would play an impor- 
tant part in a naval engagement. But the 
difficulty seems to be their remaining con 
stantly at sea in company with a fleet. 
The French already are drilling' their 
torpedo-boats to accompany a sea-going 
squadron ; but I have a suspicion that, for 
different reasons, these boats are con- 
stantly obliged to return to port. It must 
be remembered that a torpedo-boat is built 
of the lightest material, and is of the finest 
workmanship. Very little would there- 
fore tend to put her out of order. I have 
seen a torpedo-boat before a gale, in a 
gale, and after a gale, at sea ; and altiiough 
I should be sorry to discourage those who 
have put faith in her capacity as a sea- 
boat, still I must say that in the last state 
the boat presented a very dilapidated ap- 

Although it is the fashion for ironclads 
to be fitted so as they can launch their 
own torpedoes, I do not think that they 
would be able to do so with efficiency, for 
several reasons — the first being, that a 

torpedo is never sure of being fired with 
accuracy when projected from a height 
greater than two or three feet above the 
water. In fact it has been proved that to 
obtain the s(3-callcd accuracy at which they 
profess to have arrived, the torpedo must 
be fixed as close as possible to the water's 
edge, and in the boats now in construction 
the most important element is the close 
proximity to the water in which the tubes 
are placed. I myself have seen torpedoes 
fired from a ship's broadside, and although 
on one or two occasions they have been 
launched with considerable accuracy, I 
have seen one of them immediately after 
its submersion fiy straight up in the air 
and endanger the safety of the ship from 
which it had been fired; so I think that 
little confidence can be placed, at present, 
in the efficacy of torpedoes fired from 
ships' batteries. 

There is another essential point as re- 
gards the efficacy of sea-going torpedoes 
during a naval engagement. A torpedo* 
boat might in the miUe mistake a friend 
for an enemy. Again, let us suppose that 
two ships are hotly engaged, and that one 
of them succeeds in capturing the other. 
If the conquering ship neglects to hoist on 
her prize the flag of her nation, a torpedo- 
boat coming from a distance, and belong- 
ing to the captor's nationality, is as likely 
as not to blow the prize up. This may 
be rather far-fetched, but more unlikely 
things have really happened in naval war- 
fare. Coming naval engagements will be 
soon decided, — the time would be too 
short and the confusion too great to allow 
of any accurate action on the part of tor- 
pedo-boats. Independent action would 
be dangerous. I should suggest that 
torpedo-boats of a smaller class that can 
be hoisted up should be carried on board 
men-of-war. These could be used or not 
as required, by responsible captains, who 
would be capable of forming an opinion 
as to the time when they should be util- 

Now one word about offensive torpedo 
warfare. Torpedo-boats could be sent 
from blockading squadrons into an ene- 
my's port, and if the enemy's ships were 
unprepared, could do, no doubt, a vast 
amount of injury. Further than this, I 
am at a loss to perceive how they can be 

I have ventured in this paper to throw 
some doubt upon the great efficacy of the 
so-called fish torpedo, inasmuch as I think 
its danger can be averted. I will now turn 
to other torpedo inventions, which I think, 
when perfected, will prove better adapted 


to naval warfare. It must be remembered 
that the origin of the torpedo was in Amer- 
ica during the great war between the 
North and South. The torpedo used, 
although at that time in its infancy, proved 
itself to be a most deadly weapon of de- 
fence. Placed at the mouths of great riv- 
ers, in the rivers themselves, and in shoal 
water, wherever an enemy was likely to 
be cruising, it did good service on many 
occasions. I think I am right when I say 
that more than fifteen vessels were de- 
stroyed by torpedoes during the time that 
the war lasted. This torpedo was, with 
some very rare exceptions, used as a mine 
placed either floating, or at the bottom of 
the sea or river, and several vessels were 
thus destroyed while passing over these 
snares. More than one case of conspicu- 
ous daring on the part of the Southern 
naval officers occurred during the war, 
while using most effectively what is called 
the cigar torpedo-boat. This was a craft 
which, when in motion, was entirely im- 
mersed, except the top of the funnel, and 
might almost be called a submarine tor- 
pedo. I remember on one occasion dur- 
ing the war, when I was at Charleston, 
meeting in a coffee-room at that place a 
young naval officer (a Southerner), with 
whom I got into conversation. He told 
me that that night he was going to sink a 
Northern man-of-war which was blockad- 
ing the port, and invited me to see him 
off. I accompanied him down to his cigar- 
boat, as he called it, and found that she 
was a vessel about forty feet long, shaped 
like a cigar, on the bow of which was 
placed a torpedo. On his stepping on 
board with his crew of four men, his boat 
was immersed till nothing but a small 
piece of funnel was visible. He moved 08. 
into the darkness at no great speed — say 
at about five miles an hour. The next 
evening, on visiting ihe coffee-house, I 
found my friend sitting quietly smoking 
his pipe. He told me that he had suc- 
ceeded in making a hole in the frigate 
which he had attacked, which vessel 
could, in fact, be seen lying in shallow 
water, some seven miles off, careened 
over to repair damages. But he said that, 
on the concussion made by firing the tor- 
pedo, the water had rushed in through the 
hatches of his boat, and she had sunk to 
the bottom. All his men were drowned. 
He said that he didn't know how he es- 
caped himself, but he fancied that he came 
up through the hatches, as he found him- 
self floating about, and swam on shore. 
This affair was officially reported by the 
American blockading squadron, corrobo- 


rating the fact of the injury done to the 
frigate, and stating that the torpedo-boat 
was got up, with four dead bodies in her 
hold. Here is one system which might 
be utilized in naval warfare if perfected, 
and I am given to understand that a sub- 
marine torpedo-boat is already invented by 
Mr. Nordenfeldt. 

In regard to the fixed torpedoes I have 
already referred to, the admiral command- 
ing the American squadron told me that 
on one occasion he was steaming in line, 
his fiag-ship being second in the order 
of sailing, when suddenly the ship ahead 
of them disappeared altogether, having 
struck on a mine ; and that he found these 
mines the most deadly enemies to deal 
with, especially when the water was not 
very deep. I have seen a clever inven- 
tion of Colonel Ley tried at Constantino- 
ple. This invention, which is now being 
put into shape by Mr. Nordenfeldt, struck 
me as being the weapon of the future, if 
the present somewhat serious defects — 
namely, its want of speed and immersion 
— could be overcome. When I saw it 
tried, it was steered by electricity, and 
went very straight for more than a mile. 
But it was too visible in the water, and 
only obtained about nine knots* speed, and 
thus, I think, would have been easily de- 
stroyed in the daytime. However, I am 
given to understand that Mr. Nordenfeldt 
has partially, if not entirely, overcome 
the above-named defects. If so, he has a 
good chance of taking a lead in torpedo 
manufacture, as he does now in machine- 
guns. General Berdan also promises 
great things in torpedoes. If he can do 
what he professes, he will cut every one 
out ; for he undertakes to give speed, dis- 
tance, safety against nets and other obsta- 
cles, easy steering powers, certainty of 
direction, etc. I wish him well, but he 
has been a very long time about it, and so 
far his trials have shown few satisfactory 

Now in this paper I have spoken of the 
fish or Whitehead torpedo, the Harvey, 
the Pole, the fixed or mine torpedo, the 
Ley or Nordenfeldt, the cigar-boat, and the 
Berdan. I have no doubt that there are 
other inventions, because the fact remains 
that the torpedo is not perfect — no, not 
by any means. When it is so, we had 
better act like the 'coon up a tree in Amer- 
ica, who says to the sportsman, whom he 
knows to be a dead shot, *• Don't shoot — 
I'll come down ; " for war would then be 
too awful. 

As the torpedo scare may extend to 
merchant vessels, I will say a few words 



of consolation on that head. A merchant 
vessel need not fear the torpedo cruiser, 
because if the vessel carrying; the boats 
which launch that nasty weapon can get 
near enough for them to use it, she will 
be near enouj^h to go alongside, for the 
capture of valuable property is of more 
importance than its destruction. More- 
over, it would be useless to send out tor- 
pedo-boats alone to look for prizes. Where 
could they be sent from? Where would 
they get coals? And what would they 
do with the prizes after they had taken 
them? They cannot carry prize crews; 
and to destroy a vessel for the sake of 
destruction would be a wanton act, which 
would be universally condemned. Be- 
sides, a torpedo is a very expensive arti- 
cle to throw away for the sake of destroy- 
ing an enemy's merchant vessel. So 1 
think that the captains and crews of mer- 
chant vessels may breathe freely as far as 
torpedoes are concerned. It is intended, 
I understand, to use torpedoes on board 
regular seagoing vessels of from three to 
four hundred tons. This seems to me to 
be a practicable idea; and should the dis- 
tance a "torpedo can be fired be increased, 
these vessels would be serviceable craft: 
but so long as four hundred yards is the 
maximum distance, they would, unless at- 
tacking a craft of their own size, be liable 
to be knocked to pieces before they could 
get within torpedo range of the enemy; 
and it must be remembered that they 
would be a much larger target than the 

One word more. I would ask my naval 
friends how they would judge distance at 
night when 6ring their torpedoes, and 
how they propose to approach ships 
guarded with nets and boats? Remem- 
ber, also, that ships can cruise with their 
nets down. The fact is, that what fright- 
ens people is the great speed at which 
they see the devilish-looking torpedo-boat 
dashing by them. They do not take into 
consideration the damage that great speed 
would cause to the torpedo-boat itself, in 
the event of its meeting any obstacle, or 
being obliged to stop suddenly. For ex- 
ample, a curious case occurred lately on 
this coast. A torpedo-boat was obliged 
to stop suddenly, the result being that her 
machinery came to utter grief, and three 
men were killed by the fires being thrown 
out of the furnaces, and on to them ; and 
I repeat that a boat fouling a wire rope 
was capsized and sunk, through the sud- 
den check of her great impetus through 
the water. Taking into consideration all 
the experiences that 1 have narrated in 

this paper, I think that I am justified in 
saying that fish-torpedo warfare is to a 
great extent a bugbear, and though not to 
be entirely despised, may be designated 
as the " naval scare of the day." 

From The Saturday Review. 

A DRAWING-ROOM day has formed the 
subject of many a social essay, and has 
been introduced as a feature in many a 
novel. The block of carriages in St. 
James*s Street, the club windows full of 
ogling and criticising dandies, the silver 
wigs of the coachmen, the bouquets and 
calves of the footmen, and the retiring 
loveliness of the bashful dibutantes^ af- 
fording a charming contrast to the maturer 
charms of the mothers and dowagers, 
have all been expatiated upon over and 
over again. The queen's drawing-room 
is, in fact, an old-established British insti- 
tution, and is justly looked upon by a cer- 
tain section of the public as one of the few 
gratuitous shows afforded by a residence 
in, or a visit to, the metropolis. 

But to those who can remember the 
glories of a drawing-room forty or fifty 
years ago, the ceremony of the present 
day must present but a sorry and insig- 
nificant spectacle in comparison with what 
they were accustomed to in their youth. 
** The old order changelh, giving place to 
new," is in this case an unusually apt 
quotation, and from a spectacular point of 
view the new order certainly cannot hold 
a candle to the old. The stately C-spring 
chariot, which in the old days was con- 
sidered the only suitable carriage for a 
person of any distinction to go to court in, 
has almost entirely dropped out of every- 
day use; and although a few will still be 
brought out for State occasions, ihey form 
the exception instead of the rule, and it 
cannot in the nature of wood and iron 
work be very long before the last of them 
disappear altogether. In their place we 
find *Mandaus" of various builds and va- 
rious degrees of smartness, and every 
variety of brougham, from the neat and 
exquisitely finished productions of Barker 
or Thrupp to the shapeless and weather- 
beaten vehicle with dingy panels and gen- 
erally shabby-genteel appearance. With 
the decadence of the chariot has also su- 
pervened a falling off in the style of the 
once magnificent retainers who accom- 
panied it. A cluster of three or perhaps 
four stately footmen up behind, now only 



seen in the case of very illustrious person- 
ages, was nothing very much out of the 
common, each one of whom was in him^ 
self a thing of beauty and an object of 
interest to an admiring crowd. But even 
where a chariot is now seen it has usually 
but one or, at the most, twO gentlemen in 
livery on the footboard, who, so far from 
taking a proper pride in their position and 
functions, are apt to display a self-con- 
sciousness that seems almost to amount 
to a sense of shame, and that is by no 
means in keeping with traditional asso- 
ciations. And, to come down to details, 
it is impossible for any well-regulated 
mind to observe without some tinge of 
regret the lamentable deterioration in the 
size and quality of the bouquets worn on 
these occasions. Most of us are familiar 
with Leech's caricature of the coachman 
who, on being asked for his reason for 
leaving his last place, was compelled to 
state that at the last drawing-room he 
had been put off with a bouquet that had 
been made up in the housekeeper's room 
instead of being ordered from Covent 
Garden. No person of proper feeling 
could have failed to sympathize with the 
worthy man under such painful circum- 
stances, or to recognize the insult to his 
cloth which he so justly resented. But 
we fear that many a coachman nowadays 
has to put up with still further indignities ; 
and of the few so called bouquets that 
custom still continues here and there to 
affix to the manly breasts of coachmen 
and footmen, the majority are scarcely 
worthy of even the housekeeper's room, 
and are, on the whole, more suggestive of 
having been bought in the street. The 
utilitarian spirit of the age seems to have 
overspread even such a time-honored in- 
stitution as the queen's drawing-room; 
and the theory has been tacitly, though 
generally, accepted that the days when it 
was thought desirable to make a show 
have gone by, and that it now represents 
nothing more than a tiresome, though 
necessary, function, to be got through 
with as little trouble as possible. A 
drawing-room nowadays is, in fact, only 
redeemed from being a dull procession of 
carriages by the presence of a military 
element; though, as long as the House- 
hold Cavalry, with their brilliant uniforms, 
their picturesquely attired bands, and 
their manifold popular attractions, con- 
tinue to form a part of the show, there 
will always be something bright and im- 
posing about it. 

The most splendid and glittering of 
pageants, however, has always its reverse 

side ; and even if no one were allowed to 
appear at court in any vehicle beneath the 
dignity of a coach and four, with domestics 
ta correspond, there would be plenty of 
room for the moralist to indulge in re- 
flections upon the vanity of the whole 
proceeding. Much has been said of the 
hardships undergone by delicate ladies 
through exposure in slight attire to the 
chilling blasts of an English spring; of 
weary waitings in cold and unaired recep- 
tion-rooms and ugly rushes at barriers; of 
the imperiousness and stern demeanor of 
gentleman ushers and subordinates of the 
lord chamberlain's department ; of the 
solemn moment when the struggling /crowd 
is suddenly marshalled into single file, and 
seasoned dowager and trembling dibutante 
have to pass alone and unsupported into 
the presence of their sovereign ; and last, 
though not least, of the indescribable feel- 
ing of relief and thankfulness when the 
last curtsey has been made, and, gathering 
up the voluminous folds of her train, happy 
if it is still intact and untrodden upon, the 
fair courtier emerges into the corridor 
with a delightful sense of having success- 
fully passed through a trying ordeal, and 
of being free to converse with her friends 
who have also passed, or to criticise and 
condole with those whose trial is still 
to come. There are doubtless certain 
grounds for such reflections ; and it would 
be impossible to deny that ladies who at- 
tend a drawing-room must be prepared to 
undergo a certain amount of discomfort. 
But for a good deal of this it may, perhaps, 
on the other hand, be hinted, they have 
only themselves to blame. It is not, as a 
rule, colder by day than by night, even 
from February till May ; and if ladies were 
to take the same precautions when going 
to a drawing-room as they habitually do 
when going to a ball, they would possibly 
have less to complain of in the way of 
colds and other attendant ailments. As it 
is, a fond mother, who would be horrified 
at the idea of taking her child to a ball 
any night in the season without an elab- 
orate arrangements of wraps, will let her 
shiver for an hour or more in the Mall in 
what is practically a ball dress, with little 
or no protection from the raw, damp at- 
mosphere of early spring; and is then 
surprised and indignant if the result be 
that her darling is laid up for a fortnight. 
No doubt, too, the waiting and the crowd 
inside the palace are very trying both to 
strength and patience, and it is here, per- 
haps, that the greatest danger is expe- 
rienced in regard to draughts or chills. 
Wraps must, of course, be discarded on 



eDtering, and it is unquestionably a seri- 
ous matter for a delicate person to have 
to pass perhaps a couple of hours in a 
series of large, uninhabited, and conse- 
quently imperfectly aired, rooms, and in a 
costume, moreover, that is only suited for 
warmth and candlelight. It might be out 
of place on our part to volunteer sugges- 
tions to the high authorities to whom is 
entrusted the regulation of such matters. 
Her Majesty is well known to take a 
special interest in everything relating, not 
only to the welfare, but also to the per- 
sonal comfort, of her subjects ; and it may 
safely be assumed that the lord chamber- 
lain and his staff have instructions to do 
everything in their power for the conven- 
ience of ladies and gentlemen attending 
her Majesty's court. But so universal, 
and apparently so well founded, have been 
the complaints on this score that it is dif 
ficult to understand why any grounds for 
them should still remain, as a very little 
care and foresight would appear to be 
necessary in order to secure that the 
rooms to be used should be thoroughly 
aired and warmed before those attending 
the drawing-room are admitted. This is 
perhaps the only serious accusation that 
can justly be brought against the ** man- 
agement ** on these occasions. No doubt 
the long waitings in each room are very 
tedious and wearying, and the crowding 
and pressing at the various barriers must 
always be very annoying and trying to 
the temper. I3ut as long as ladies con- 
tinue to display their loyalty by flocking 
to court, it is difficult to see how a certain 
amount of crowding is to be avoided. It 
might possibly be within the resources of 
science to devise some more complete 
system of barriers or " pens," to be worked 
somewhat according to the ** absolute 
block " system of a railway, no person 
being admitted into one space or section 
until its previous occupants had all passed 
into the next. Such an arrangement might, 
however, be held to interfere almost too 
much with the liberty of the subject, and 
would certainly be rather suggestive of a 
cattle-market. But, anyhow, ladies who 
come to court must expect to be put under 
at least a show of discipline, and ought 
not to complain if their natural and charm- 
ing tendency to get into mischief requires 
that they should be kept well in hand. 
Those elegant gentlemen in silk stockings 
and curiously laced coats, whose calves 
only require a little professional cultiva- 
tion and whose hair a little powder to 
make them very respectable imitations of 

John and Jeames, have after all a delicate 
and responsible duty to discharge. The 
slightest exhibition of indecision or want 
of firmness on their part might have the 
most serious results; and the idea of 
Buckingham Palace with some six or 
seven hundred ladies in a state of panic 
or insubordination is almost too dreadful 
to contemplate. The fact is — and this is 
not sufficiently realized — that a drawing- 
room is an important State function, and, 
as such, requires to be conducted with 
something approaching to military pre- 
cision and discipline. Every person pres- 
ent is for the time being an actor in the 
ceremony, and cannot complain if ex- 
pected to act strictly under orders. 

It is perhaps to be regretted, having 
regard to the uncertainty of the British 
climate, and the important part played by 
the weather on such occasions, that imme- 
morial custom has decreed that drawing- 
rooms should take place in the daytime. 
No one who has witnessed a drawing- 
room at the viceregal court in Dublin can 
have failed to contrast it favorably in 
many respects with the same ceremony in 
London. The mere fact of its being in 
the evening and after dinner deprives the* 
ceremony of a great deal of its normal 
coldness and stiffness, and imparts to it 
something of the character of a stately 
social entertainment. Jewels sparkle with 
additional lustre ; dresses show to greater 
advantage; and complexions that are per- 
haps scarcely equal to the cold glare of 
daylight look positively charming under 
the mellow effulgence of wax candles, or 
even a judicious and properly subdued 
application of the electric light. The bril- 
liant drawing-room recently held at Dub- 
lin Castle by the Princess of Wales may 
possibly have suggested, or rather revivecf, 
the idea of introducing the same system 
in London; and should this ever come 
about, there can be no doubt that it would 
be hailed with enthusiasm by all directly 
concerned. The only real argument in 
favor of holding drawing-rooms by day is 
that pageants of any kind are so rare in 
London that it would not be fair to de- 
prive the public of what is even now a 
popular show. But, after all, the propor- 
tion of the public who come to see it must 
necessarily be comparatively limited; and 
the comfort and convenience of the actors 
in such a ceremony is perhaps of more 
importance than the amusement of the 

There is one other consideration which 
can hardly fail to suggest itself to the in- 



telligent spectator of one of these func- 
tions — namely, what is the object of it 
all ? This, however, opens up a delicate 
subject upon which we have sonte diffi- 
dence in entering; but we fear that the 
answer can hardly be regarded as alto- 
gether satisfactory. The primary object 
of attending a drawing-room or levde is, 
of course, to pay a tribute of respect to 
the sovereign. But the notion of a quid 
pro quo may associate itself even with a 
State ceremony ; and it is probable that, if 
there were no such things as State balls 
and State concerts, a large proportion of 
those who now **go to court" would be 
satisfied with some other means of testify- 
ing their devotion to the crown. It is to 
be feared that the experiences of many of 
these excellent and loyal persons must be 
very disappointing, and suggestive of noth- 
ing but vanity and vexation of spirit. We 
believe that a theory once existed, and 
perhaps still exists to a certain extent, 
that those who attended drawing-rooms 
and levies might reasonably expect to be 
invited in due course to some court enter- 
tainments. Thirty or forty years ago, 
when ** society " was a very different thing 
from what it is now, and when few per- 
sons below a certain social or official rank 
thought it any part of their business to 
go to court, this may have been very gen- 
erally the case. But it is a very di^erent 
thing nowadays, and as the number of 
quasi-courtiers has increased at least three- 
fold, while the number and standard of 
the court entertainments remain the same 
as ever, it is obvious that it would be im- 
possible to apply this theory to existing 
circumstances. Some system of selection 
roust therefore necessarily be resorted to, 
and the natural result must be to provoke 
a good deal of envy, hatred, malice, and 
all uncharitableness, on the part of those 
who are not so fortunate as to be included 
in the lists of invitations. It would cer- 
tainly seem no very dangerous innovation 
to add another State ball or two to the 
annual hospitalities of Buckingham Pal- 
ace, and some day this may perhaps be 
found expedient and practicable. Every 
year the complaints grow louder as to the 
decadence of the London season, and 
nothing would tend so much to restore 
life to the depressing state of things that 
seems to exist at present as some expan- 
sion of courtly festivities. We might 
then, perhaps, look for a partial revival, 
at least, of the by-gone glories of the 
drawing-room, which would regain in a 
great measure its original social meaning 
and importance. 

From The Leisure Hoar. 

There was a miller, by name Veit Bach, 
who lived at Wechmar, in Saxe-Gotha, 
about the year 1600. He had considerable 
taste for music, and his principal enjoy- 
ment consisted in playing the Cythrin^en 
(probably a zither) to the clattering accom- 
paniment of his turning mill-wheels. It 
was a happy union of business and pleas- 
ure. This taste for music was still more 
marked in his sons. Most of the family 
adopted music as a profession, and the 
best posts as organists in their native 
province came at last to be filled by Bachs. 
They furnish a remarkable example of 
hereditary genius — one of the most strik- 
ing, indeed, on record. Through four 
consecutive generations the Bachs fol- 
lowed the same calling with enthusiasm, 
and no fewer than fifty musicians entitled 
to an honorable place in the history of the 
art are to be found amongst them. Their 
musical name and musical nature kept 
company for nearly two hundred years, at 
the end of which time the spell was broken, 
and the artistic pre-eminence of the Bachs 
came to an end. Union is strength, so 
they kept close together, ready to give 
each other not only good advice, but ma- 
terial assistance. Every year they held a 
family meeting at Erfurt, Eisenach, or 
Arnstadt, and had musical performances 
together. These annual gatherings give 
an idea of the strength of the clan ; at one 
of them no fewer than a hundred and 
twenty Bachs, all musicians, were present. 
The greatest of them, the Bach of Bachs, 
\%as Johann Sebastian, to whom consider- 
able attention is now being directed, the 
bicentenary of his birth having fallen this 
year. To speak of him is the object of 
the present article. The leading events 
in the life of Johann Sebastian Bach are 
soon told. They are neither numerous 
nor striking. He was born at Eisenach 
on March 21, 1685, and was the youngest 
son of Ambrosius Bach. Unhappily, 
when he was ten years old both his father 
and mother died. An elder brother, or- 
ganist at Ohrdru£f, then took charge of 
him and continued the musical instruction 
which had been begun by the father, add- 
ing to the practice of the violin that of the 
organ and clavichord. The young Sebas- 
tian showed himself in haste to make 
progress, and was ambitious to play much 
more advanced music than the brother 
thought proper. There is a tradition that 
the latter had a manuscript volume of 
pieces for the clavichord by the most cele- 



brated composers of the day, and on mas- 
tering this collection Johann Sebastian 
had set his heart. The use of it was re- 
fused. Entreaty having failed, the boy 
tried cunning. He managed to withdraw 
ii surreptitiously through the lattice-work 
door of a cupboard in which it was kept, 
and — having no means to buy candles — 
copied it by the light of the moon. These 
stealthy labors lasted during the moon- 
light nights of six months. When the 
brother found out the trick that had been 
played he, rather shabbily, one is inclined 
to think, took the boy's copy away, and 
Johann Sebastian only recovered it on his 
brother's death, which happened soon af- 
terwards. Thrown, when that event took 
place, OQ his own resources, he made a 
marketable commodity of a fine soprano 
voice with which he was gifted, and bejjan 
his professional career in a choir at Liine- 
burg. Whilst at Liineburg he used fre- 
quently to go to Hamburg in order to hear 
the celebrated organist Reinken play. It 
is related that once when he had lingered 
at Hamburg longer than his means al- 
lowed, he had only two shillings in his 
pocket on his way back to Liineburg. 
Before he reached home he felt very hun- 
gry, and stopped outside an inn, from the 
kitchen of which proceeded such tempting 
odors as made him painfully aware of the 
disproportion of his appetite to his purse. 
His hungry appearance seems to have 
struck with compassion some casual look- 
ers-on, for he heard a window open, and 
saw two herring heads thrown out into 
the road. The sight of these remains of 
what are such a popular article of food in 
Thiiringen, his old home, made his mouth 
water; he picked them up eagerly, and 
great was his surprise on pulling them to 
pieces to find a Danish ducat concealed 
in each of them. This discovery enabled 
bim not only to satisfy his wants at the 
moment, but to make his next journey to 
Hamburg in a more comfortable manner. 
The unknown benefactor, who no doubt 
peeped out of the window to watch the 
result of his good-nature, made no attempt 
to know more of the boy. When eighteen 
years old Bach obtained a musical sit- 
uation in connection with the Court of 
Weimar, and saw something there of aris- 
tocratic life. It was a homely court; it 
went to bed at eight o'clock in winter and 
nine in summer. His reputation grew; 
he soon became known as the greatest 
organist of his time, and his services were 
much sought after. From Weimar he 
went to be organist at Arnstadt, then to 
Miiblhausen, then to Weimar again — as 

court organist this time. Other changes 
followed, but we come to the last in 1723, 
when he was appointed cantor at the 
Thomas-Schule in Leipzig and organist 
and director of the music in the two prin- 
cipal churches. There he remained for 
the rest of his life. Ever since his boy- 
hood Bach had been near-sighted, and at 
last his vision entirely failed. He died of 
apoplexy on July 28, 1750. As regards 
the personal appearance of this great 
musician, his countenance is described as 
one of singular dignity and refinement. 
Thick eyebrows stood out from beneath 
his great forehead, and he had that long, 
firm nose which they say fortune gives to 
her favorites that she may use it as a 
handle when she draws them to the front. 
His knitted brows might be taken to indi 
cate severity of character; but, remarks 
one writer, ** the impression is softened 
^by the sweet sensitive lines of the mouth." 
He was quick-tempered, and fired up 
sometimes at very trifling opposition. 
But excuses must be made for the irrita- 
tion of an artist when he finds himself 
opposed and unappreciated by the Philis- 
tines. The worshipful Corporation of 
Arnstadt once rebuked Bach for his "per- 
plexing variations and strange harmonies 
whereby the congregation was confound- 
ed," and on such an occasion no doubt he 
needed a stock of good temper. He also 
had occasional disputes at Leipzig with 
his employers, the town councillors, who 
were sometimes shocked by the "uncleri- 
cal " style of his compositions and by the 
independent way in which he conducted 
himself. But there was a genial side to 
Bach's character, and in his relations as 
husband, father, and friend he secured the 
admiration of all who knew him. He was 
of a deeply religious spirit, and this is 
evident in everything he undertook during 
his busy life. Modesty has never been a 
characteristic of musicians, but Bach was 
modest. The question was once put to 
him how he had acquired his great talent. 
"By working hard," he replied; "and all 
who like to work as hard will succeed just 
as I have done." He was twice married. 
The death of his first wife, Maria Barbara, 
forms one of the few melancholy events 
of his career. He was returning from a 
pleasant visit to Carlsbad, and when on 
the road and no news could reach him his 
wife suddenly fell sick and died. When 
he arrived at his own door, full of happi- 
ness at the thought of seeing her again, 
he found that she was already buried. 
His second wife, Anna Magdalena, was 
fifteen years his junior, but — thanks to 



similarity of taste — she proved an ad- 
mirable companioD ; helping in his work 
and sharing in his pleasures. By his first 
wife he had seven children, by his second 
thirteen — there were twenty in all, eleven 
boys and nine girls. Bach's inventive 
capacity was shown not only in his adop- 
tion of equal temperament, and his innova- 
tions in the art of fingering — for in that 
too he introduced great improvements — 
but in the construction of a new instru- 
ment, the lute-harpsichord {Lauiiclavi- 
cymbet). This instrument had surprising 
brilliancy of tone. The difficulty of tun- 
ing, however, led to its abandonment, and 
no wonder, if in that respect it at all re- 
sembled the first of the instruments from 
which it derived its name. Let us speak 
now of Bach in his higher character as a 
composer. A great creative genius he 
certainly was : one of the most remarkable, 
indeed, of the monarchs of the world of 
music. His inexhaustible fertility, the 
novel and independent character of his 
work, its profound science, and deep ear- 
nestness, all entitle him to lasting fame. 
Comparisons have often been drawn be- 
tween Bach and Handel. They were 
contemporary musical giants, both born 
in the same year. Their styles are as 
different as their lives ; the difference be- 
tween the two, it has been well said, 'Ms 
the same as that which lies between a 
great philosopher and a great epic poet — 
between Plato and Homer." They are 
equally great in their ways, but the poet 
will be understood with less effort than 
the philosopher, and listened to with more 
pleasure. The fame of Bach excited the 
curiosity of Frederick the Great, and this 
resulted in an invitation in 1747 to the 
court at Potsdam. It was the last jour- 
ney undertaken by the composer. His 
arrival was announced just as the king 
was beginning a f^ute solo at a State con- 
cert. The monarch laid down his instru- 
ment, and turning to the musicians who 
were wailing to accompany him, " Gen- 
tlemen," he exclaimed, "old Bach has 
come!" There was no flute-playing that 
evening. Bach was taken irom room to 
room of the palace, and had to play on all 
the Silbermann pianofortes, instruments 
which the king particularly admired, and 
of which he had a considerable number. 
Gratified by the respect and kindness of 
his reception, the composer did his best, 
and excited the greatest wonder by his 
improvisations. A theme which the king 
gave him was worked up on his return to 
Leipzig, and it was dedicated to Frederick 
the Great under the title of *SVIusikal- 

isches Opfer." But if Bach was famous 
during life, little regard seems for some 
time after his death to have been shown 
to his memory. His widow had a struggle 
to exist, and died a pauper at last, ten 
years after her husband. Then Leipzig, 
of which he was such a distinguished or- 
nament, rooted up St. John's Churchyard, 
where he had been laid to rest, and threw 
it into a road, and the composer's bones 
were scattered, no one apparently caring 
what became of them. 

James Mason. 

From The Spectator. 

Mr. Ralph Disraeli has given the 
world a great pleasure, in recalling to us 
what we venture to regard as the essence 
of his distinguished brother, by the publi- 
cation of some of the dashing and glitter- 
ing letters which he sent home from Spain, 
the Mediterranean, and Egypt in the years 
1830 and 1831. They bring before us the 
most unique and even startling figure in 
our modern politics with singular force, 
and sometimes we seem to be reading 
allegories anticipative of Mr. Disraeli's 
actual career. If Carlyle had read these 
letters before the publication of his 
clothes philosophy, — and had he known 
.Mr. Disraeli's family he might have done 
so, — what illustrations for that book 
would they not have suggested to him 1 
Naturally enough, the 6rst thing which 
strikes and delights Disraeli is the vari- 
ety of the Spanish costumes; and one of 
the first messages to his mother tells her 
that as it is the custom at Gibraltar not to 
wear waistcoats in the morning, '*her new 
studs came into fine play, and maintain 
my reputation of being a great judge of 
costume, to the admiration and envy of 
many subalterns. 1 have also the fame of 
being the first who ever passed the Straits 
with two canes, a morning and an evening 
cane. I change my cane as the gun fires, 
and hope to carry them both on to Cairo. 
It is wonderful the effect these magical 
wands produce. I owe to their use more 
attention than to being the supposed 
author of — what is it? I forget." But 
much more characteristic than his dress 
and his delight in flashing new and bril- 
liant costumes on the eyes of his acquaint- 
ances, is Mr. Disraeli's use of dress as a 
moral instrument. As the author of 
"Vivian Grey," he felt it necessary to 
keep up a reputation for a certain pictur- 


esque insolence, and he does it by the in- 
strumentality of dress. When a pedant 
bored him he gave him a lecture on 
"canes" "which made him stare," and 
offended -him, as Disraeli intended. In 
Malta he created quite an enthusiasm by 
donning the costume of a Greek pirate. 
"A blood-red shirt, with silver studs as 
big as shillings, an immense scarf for 
girdle, full of pistols and daggers, red cap, 
red slippers, broad blue-striped jacket and 
trowsers," quite electrified the garrison 
town. He got five invitations to dinner 
in the course of one walk down the chief 
street here. And in Turkey he made 
costume go further still. When he is 
speaking of his visit to Yanina, he writes : 
** I forgot to tell you that with the united 
assistance of my English, Spanish, and 
fancy wardrobe, 1 sported a costume in 
Yanina which produced a most extraordi- 
nary effect on that costume-loving people. 
A great many Turks called on purpose to 
see it ; but the little Greek physician, who 
bad passed a year at Pisa in his youth, 
nearly smoked me. * Questo vestito In- 
glese o di fantasia?' he aptly asked. I 
oracularly replied, * Inglese e fantastico.'" 
One can imagine Lord Beaconsfield mak- 
ing the same reply to an intelligent for- 
eigner in after days, if he had been asked, 
'• That policy of yours ; is it an English 
or a fancy policy?" "An English and 
a fancy policy," he would certainly have 
answered, if he had been even as frank in 
those latter days as he was with the Greek 
physician, to whom, nevertheless, he 
would have been much franker if he had 
said, " Not English at all, but fancy only." 
It is clear, however, that Mr. Disraeli 
used costume very much as he used lan- 
guage, to express not so much his mind 
as his audacity, his resolve to be different 
from every one else, to show the world 
that he could keep its attention, and yet 
not conform to its will ; that he chose to 
mould his own fashions, to amuse himself 
by bewildering its weak intelligence, and 
finally to work on it his own will. We 
have a curious instance of this in a letter 
written to his father from Malta, when he 
announces quite authoritatively to the old 
gentleman his philosophy of life: "To 
govern men," he says, *: you must either 
excel them in their accomplishments, or 
despise them. Clay does one, and I do 
the other ; and we are both equally popu- 
lar. Affectation tells here even better 
than wit. Yesterday at the racket-court, 
sitting in the gallery among strangers, the 
ball entered, and lightly struck me and 
fell at my feet. I picked it up, and ob- 


serving a young rifleman excessively stiff, 
I humbly requested him to forward its 
passage into the court, as I really had 
never thrown a ball in my life. This in- 
cident has been the general subject of 
conversation at all the messes to-day." 
If this had been a mere affectation, with- 
out being frankly confessed to himself and 
his friends as a gross affectation, we 
should simply have despised Disraeli for 
it. But an affectation adopted for the 
audacity of the freak, as Mr. Disraeli's 
affectations were adopted, somehow does 
not impress us exactly as common affec- 
tations do; they are rather improvised 
modes of saying : " Look at me ; here 
you see a man who is quite willing to 
boast of being what every one else would 
despise, if only he can thereby convey to 
the world that he despises it, much more 
than it can despise him." Again and 
again you find in these letters remarkable 
anticipations of Mr. Disraeli's future ca- 
reer. The delight, for instance, with which 
he records that he "made an immense 
sensation " in one land after another, sug- 
gests an explanation of the often fantastic 
conceits of his future speeches, as when 
he would propose to let the British Cham- 
bers of Commerce elect some of the mem- 
bers of the Indian Council, or describe 
the union of Church and State as resting 
on "the Semitic principle," or argue that 
we ought to have used our guarantee to 
Prussia of her Saxon provinces, given in 
the Treaty of Vienna, as a weapon to deter 
France from going to war with Prussia in 
1870. Such flourishes were very like his 
request to the stiff rifleman to throw back 
the tennis-ball for him on the ground that 
he had never thrown a ball in his life. At 
all events they certainly answered the 
same purpose of making men stare, and 
being "the subject of conversation at all 
the messes " en the following day. 

Disraeli landed at Cyprus, and passed 
a day "on land famous in all ages, but 
more delightful to me as the •residence of 
Fortunatus [of the magic purse], than as 
the rosy realm of Venus, or the romantic 
kingdom of the Crusaders." Was it then, 
we wonder, that he formed the wish, wor- 
thy of Fortunatus not only in its wildness 
but in its marvellous fulfilment, to add 
Cyprus, by his own unassisted volition, to 
the kingdom of which he was a subject? 
At all events, who can affirm, looking to 
the happy-go lucky character of the policy 
by which he achieved this stroke, that it 
would ever have been achieved at all, if 
Mr. Disraeli had not landed on the island 
of Cyprus in his youth, and associated it 



with the happy spot on which Fortunatus 
was born ? The air of grandiose caprice 
by which these letters of travel are so 
pleasantly permeated, had more to do with 
Mr. Disraeli's political future than most 
of his admirinc; followers would be in- 
clined to admit. And when Sir Robert 
Gordon (the brother of the late Lord Ab- 
erdeen), our ambassador at Constantino- 
ple, made him ** tumble head over heels" 
at a game of forfeits played in that city, 
he certainly was the means of making 
Disraeli prefigure, like the more figura- 
tive Hebrew prophets, one of the earliest 
and most remarkable of his political evo- 

Of course these letters display the enor- 
mous vitality and energy of Mr. Disraeli. 
No danger daunted him, no fatigue re- 
pelled him, no horror, among the many 
minor horrors of foreign travel, disgusted 
him with adventure. But there is also a 
premonitory sign of his weakness as a 
minister in the very characteristic avowal, 
**You know that, though I like to be at 
my ease, I want energy in those little 
affairs of which life greatly consists. Here 
1 found Clay always ready; in short, he 
saved me from much bore." Mr. Disraeli 
hated detail, even in cases where detail 

was of the very essence of statesmanship. 
He had an overflowing spontaneity of 
vitality, but vefy little of what by no 
means necessarily accompanies it, — the 
power of attending closely to the uninter- 
esting means, for the sake of the interest- 
ing end. He liked life to be all interest- 
ing, and neglected too much the routine 
toil which was needful to secure success 
for the more attractive parts of it. He 
wanted to find fresh interest in everything, 
even, for instance, in the costume of his 
servants, as well as in his own. He la- 
ments bitterly over the loss of a servant 
" who wore a Mameluke dress of crimson 
and gold, with a white turban thirty yards 
long, and a sabre glittering like a rain- 
bow," especially as he had to content 
himself '* with an Arab attendant in a blue 
shirt and slipperless," in that servant's 
place. Throughout these amusing letters 
you see that Lord Beaconsfield wished to 
lead a life with a uniformly glittering sur- 
face, and indeed greatly preferred pain 
and hardship, with excitement, to mere 
comfortable dulness and jog-trot without 
it. The delight in a brilliant superficies 
for his life, seems the animating spirit of 
these youthful letters. It was the animat- 
ing spirit, also, of his political career. 

Enamelled Glass. — About fifteen years 
ago there were seen for the first time in the 
glass cases of collectors certain remarkable 
objects of glass, which were ornamented with 
Oriental decorations of the purest and most 
delicate character, including gold arabesques, 
etc These objects, though of modern work- 
manship (mosque lamps, etc ), were high in 
price. They were only to be obtained of the 
inventor, M. Brocard, and did not appear in 
the ceramic trade. They were first exhibited 
by the Union Centrale des Arts Appliques k 
ITndustrie in 1869. Specialists and archaeolo- 
gists, however, knew that this was no new in- 
vention, but simply an imitation of Damas 
glass, which at a remote period had been em- 
ployed in the East for kindred purposes. It 
doubtless originated from the glass industry 
near Damascus, and traces of enamelled glass 
have been found under circumstances which 
point to the employmrnt of that ornamenta- 
tion in ancient times ; but its application to 
articles of ordinary use seems doubtful. In 
the treasury of St. Stephen's Cathedral, at 
Vienna, there are a dask and a vase of remark- 

able beauty, which afford valuable information 
on the subject. The dask bears an inscription, 
which has been deciphered by H. Schcfier, 
and which indicates the eighth century as the 
dale of its manufacture. Although Damascus 
was doubtless the centre of this manufacture, 
Mansourah and Alexandria are known to have 
produced excellent work at a later period. 
The Venetian glass of the thirteenth century 
l)ears evidence of a desire to reproduce this 
Oriental form of decoration ; but the imitations 
were less transparent and the relief work less 
marked in its character. M. Brocard discov- 
ered the process during researches he was 
compelled to make in order to repair a valu- 
able mosque lamp of genuine Oriental work- 
manship. It may be remarked that Venetian 
and Bohemian factories have for a long time 
used glass colors and gold for decorative pur- 
poses, but the productions of M. Brocard dis- 
play a marked superiority in every respect. 
Bohemian glass is not really enamelled, but is 
very well painted with glass colors and fired 
with a weak fire. It is not durable, and is 
easily injured by chloric acid. 

Pottery Gazette. 


Fifth Series 
Voinme LI 

; } 

No. 2142. -July 11, 1885. 

{From Beginningi 
Vol. OLXVI. 


I. Genius and Insanity,. 
II. Fortune's Wheel. Part V., 

III. From Montevideo to Paraguay, 

IV. A House Divided against Itself. 

Mrs. Oliphant. Part XXIII., 

V. Erckmann-Chatrian. . 
VI. Unexplained. Conclusion, 
VII. Curiosities of Music, . 
VIII. A Vigil in Stonehenge, 
IX. Curiosities of Taxation, 


, Nineteenth Century^ , 
. Blackwoocts Magazine^ 
. Macmillan^s Magazine^ 


Chambers* Journal^ , 
Gentleman^ s Afagszine^ 
Alacmillan^s Magatine^ 
Leisure Hour^ . . 
National Review^ . • 
All The Year Round, . 




Ion A, 1885, 


66 1 In Canterbury Cathedral, 






For Eight Dollars, remitttd dirtcUy to the Puhiishers, the Living Agb will be punctually forwarded 
for ajrear,>r'## df^slage. 

Kemittances shoulcfbe made by bank draR or check, or by post-office raoneyK>rder, if possible. If neither 
of HUtatt can be procured, the mooeyshould be sent i n a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register 
letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the ordu* ol 
LrrrsT.L & Co. 

Sii^sle Numbers of Thb Livino Aob, 18 oeota. 


ION A, 1885, ETC. 

lONA, 1885. 

The quiet clouds within the west 

Have built white domes above the isles, 

And o'er the leagues of sea at rest 
The azure calm of summer smiles. 

The sheldrake and the eider float 

In peace along each sandy bay ; 
And softly, with the rock-dove*s note, 

The caverns greet the warmth of day. 

The purple beds of deep seaweed 

Scarce wave their fronds around the Ross ; 
A silence blesses croft and mead, 

£ach sculptured stone and knotted cross. 

The lark may sing in sunlit air, 

And through the clover hum the bees ; 

They yield the only sounds of care 

VVhere warred and toiled the pure Culdees. 

And yonder grey square minster tower 

For orisons in silence calls. 
To where, enshrined in turf and flower. 

Kings guard the ruined chapel walls. 

lona, " island of the wave," 

Faith's ancient fort and armoury. 

Tomb of the holy and the brave, 
Our sires' first pledge of Calvary ; 

Christ's mission soil, O sacred sand, 
That knew his first apostle's tread I 

O rocks of refuge, whence our land 
Was first with living waters fed 1 

Mysteriously Columba*s time 
Foretold ** a second deluge dark. 

When they who on thy hill may climb 
Shall find in thee their safety's ark. 

Though hushed awhile, the hymns of praise 
Again shall rise, where feed the kine." 

Once more shall o'er thy grassy ways 
Religion's long procession shine ? 

Shall then each morn and evening late 
Unfolded see the illumined scroll. 

While echoed over shore and strait 
The sea-like organ-surges roll ? 

O saint and prophet I doth thy word 
Foretell an earthly Church's reign, 

Firm as thine island rocks, unstirred 
By tempests of the northern main ? 

Perchance I Thy wasted walls have seen 
The incense round the altars rise. 

When cloi.stcr, tower, and cell had been 
To pagan rage a sacrifice. 

But if the old cathedral ne'er 
Again shall send such children forth. 

Like those who, with the arms of prayer. 
Were conquerors of the Pictish north ; 

Yet hath that vanguard set and cast 

Such light upon our age's tide. 
That o'er life's trackless ocean vast 

Secure we sail, or anchored, ride. 

And pilgrims to his grave shall tell 
The prophet's meaning where he trod, 

And in Columba's spirit dwell, 
Safe-isled, within the fear of God f 

Good Words. 


13th March, 1885. 

*' And He buried him. . . . 
No man knoweth his sepulchre unto this day." 

Through the dim minster shrills the march 

of woe. 
Over no bier, no mourners following slow 
** This our dear brother : " God knows where 

he lies. 
How he departed ; with what obsequies 
Foul beasts and birds have done the work o' 

the grave ; 
Or if Nile hides beneath its kindly wave 
That broad frank brow and dear uncoffined 

All we know — all we can know — be is dead I 

And One has buried him : in English hearts 
Of women, though the passionate anguish darts 
Through every nerve; of children, crying full 

*' I want to be like Gordon ; " and of men. 
Who, as the worldly scales slip from their 

See how a Christian soldier lives and dies. 
What matter, though his sepulchre unknown, 
We never find, to mark with needless stone; 
Nor ever learn who his last word did hear. 
Who caught his last kind smile, to children 

God took him. In that hour perchance he saw, 
Like Moses, all the mystery of the law 
Of sacrifice — did in a vision stand 
Beholding afar off the Promised Land ; 
Order, peace, freedom, purchased by his death. 
And righteousness — the righteousness of faith* 

Then, organ, peal I Sing, sweet boy voices 

" Blessed are the departed I " 

No, he is here : 
Not lost, and not ** departed : *' a great soul 
Alive through all the ages, sound and whole, 
Strong, brave, true, tender, humble, undefiled; 
The lion-heart pure as a little child. 
Our sons, who read his story without taint. 
Ceasing to smile, shall own the hero-saint ; 
And England, rising from her swoon, in pride 
Shall show how victory came, though Gordon. 

The Author of "John Halifax, 


English Illustrated Magazine. 



From The Nineteenth Century. 

The problems which have so long per- 
plexed the thoughtful mind in presence of 
that dark yet fascinating mystery, the 
nature and origin of genius, have recently 
propounded themselves with new stress 
and insistence. Whatever may be said 
against Mr. Froude's neglect of the prun- 
ing-koife in publishing Carlyle's "Jour- 
nals and Letters," the psychologist at 
least will be grateful to him for what is 
certainly an unusually full and direct pre- 
sentment of the temperament and life of 
genius. Here we may study the strange 
lineaments which stamp a family likeness 
00 the selected few in whose souls has 
burnt the genuine fire of inspiration. 
These memoirs disclose with a startlingr 
distinctness the pathetic as well as the 
heroic side of the great man. In Carlyle 
we see the human spirit in its supreme 
strength jarred and put out of tune by the 
sufiEering incident to preternaturally keen 
sensibilities and an unalterably gloomy 

In this strange record, too, we find our- 
selves once more face to face with what 
is perhaps the most fascinating of the 
fascinating problems surrounding the sub- 
ject of intellectual greatness, that of its 
relation to mental health. Carlyle com- 
pels the attentive reader to propound to 
himself anew the long-standing puzzle, 
*' Is genius something wholly normal and 
sane.^" For there is surely a suggestion 
of temporary mental unsoundness in the 
idea of that lonely wanderer through the 
crowded streets of London suddenly see- 
ing in the figures he met so many spec- 
tres, and feeling himself to be but another 
** ghastly phantom haunted by demons.'* 
And if all anger is a sort of madness, it is 
but natural that one should see something 
of a momentary mania in those terrible 
outbursts of a spirit of revolt against all 
things which now and again made deso- 
late the Chelsea home, and wrung from 
the sage*s wife the humiliating confession 
that she felt as if she were "keeper in a 

The idea that there is an affinity be- 
tween genius and mental disease seems 
at first foreign to our modern habits of 

thought. In the one, we have human in- 
tellect rejoicing in titanic strength ; in the 
other, that same intellect disordered and 
pitiably enfeebled. Yet, as has been 
hinted, the belief in the connection of the 
two is an old and persistent one. In 
truth, the common opinion has always 
gravitated towards this belief. A word 
or two may make this clear. 

To the multitude of men genius wears 
a double aspect. Superlative intellectual 
endowment is plainly something very un- 
like the ordinary type of intelligence. 
The relation of lofty superiority includes 
that of distance, and mediocrity in view- 
ing the advent of some new spiritual star 
may adopt either the one or the other 
tnaniire de voir. Which aspect it will 
select for special contemplation depends 
on circumstances. In general, it may be 
said that, since the recognition of great- 
ness presupposes a power of comprehen- 
sion not always granted to mediocrity, the 
fact of distance is more likely to impress 
than the fact of altitude. It is only when 
supreme wisdom has justified itself, as in 
the predictions of the true prophet, that 
its essential rightness is seen by the 
crowd. Otherwise the great man has had 
to look for recognition mainly from his 
peers and the slightly more numerous 
company of those whose heads rise above 
the mists of contemporary prejudice. 

It is easy to see that this vulgar way of 
envisaging genius as marked divergence 
from common-sense views of things may 
lead on to a condemnation of it as a thing 
unnatural and misshapen. For, evidently, 
such divergence bears a superficial like- 
ness to eccentricity. Indeed, as has been 
well said, the original teacher has this 
much in common with the man mentally 
deranged, that he "is in a minority of 
one ; " and, when pains are not taken to 
note the direction of the divergence, orig- 
inality may readily be confounded with the 
most stupid singularity. And further, a 
cursory glance at the constitution of genius 
wHl suffice to show that the originator of 
new and startling ideas is very apt to 
shock the sense of common men by eccen- 
tricities in his manner of life. A man 
whose soul is being consumed by the 
desire to discover some new truth, or to 



give shape to some new artistic idea, is 
exceedingly liable to fall below the ex- 
actions of conventional society in the mat- 
ter of toilette and other small businesses 
of life. Among the many humorously 
pathetic incidents in the records of great 
men, there is perhaps none more touching 
than the futile attempt of Beethoven to 
dress himself with scrupulous conformity 
to the Viennese pattern of his day. 

In contradistinction to this disparaging 
view, the admiring contemplation of the 
great man as towering above minds of 
ordinary stature seems directly opposed to 
any approximation of the ideas of genius 
and mental disorder. And this has un- 
doubtedly been in the main the tendency 
of the more intelligeit kind of reverence. 
At the same time, by a strange, eddy- 
like movement in the current of human 
thought, the very feeling for the marvel- 
lousness of genius has given birth to a 
theory of its nature which in another way 
has associated it with mental aberration. 
I refer to the ancient doctrine of inspira- 
tion as developed more particularly in 

It may be worth while to review for a 
moment the general course of thought on 
this dark subject. 

In the classic world, preternatural intel- 
lectual endowments were, on the whole, 
greeted with admiration. In Greece more 
particularly, the fine aesthetic sense for 
what is noble, and the quenchless thirst 
for new ideas, led to a revering apprecia- 
tion of great original powers.* The whole 
manner of viewing such gifts was charged 
with supernaturalism. As the very words 
employed clearly indicate, such fine native 
endowment was attributed to the superior 
quality of the protective spirit (daliJLuv^ 
genius) which attended each individual 
from his birth. We see this supernatural- 
ism still more plainly in the Greek notion 
of the process of intellectual generation. 
The profound mystery of the process, 
hardly less deep than that of physical 
generation, led to the grand supposition 
of a direct action of the Deity on the pro- 

• Sokrates is perhaps only an apparent exception, 
for the odium he exctied seems to have been due to the 
essentially critical and destructive character of his mis- 

ductive mind. To the Greeks, the con- 
ception of new artistic ideas implied a 
possession (Koroxh) of the individual spirit 
by the god. 

Now it might naturally occur to one 
that such an inundation of the narrow 
confines of the human mind by the divine 
fulness would produce a violent disturb- 
ance of its customary processes. It was 
a shock which agitated the whole being 
to its foundation, exciting it to a pitch of 
frenzy or mania. The poet was conceived 
of as infuriated or driven mad by the god. 
And a somewhat analogous effect of di- 
vine intoxication was recognized by Plato 
as constituting the essence of philosophic 
intuition.* Hence Greek and Roman 
literature abounds with statements and 
expressions which tend to assimilate the 
man of genius to a madman. The furor 
poeticus of Cicero and the amabilis in* 
sania of Horace answer to the QtLa ftavia of 
Plato. And to the more scientific mind 
of Aristotle it appeared certain (according 
to Seneca) that there was no great intel- 
lect (magnum ingenium) without some 
mixture of madness {dementia). 

It must be remembered, however, that 
in the eyes of the ancients genius was 
hardly degraded by this companionship 
with madness. Men had not yet beguo 
to look on insanity as one of the most 
pitiable of maladies. So far from this, it 
was a common idea that the insane were 
themselves inspired by the action of deity. 
We have a striking illustration of the 
absence even among the educated Greeks 
of the modern feeling towards madness 
in the fact that Plato was able to argue, 
with no discoverable trace of his playful 
irony, that certain sorts of madness are 
to be esteemed a good rather than an 


The influence of Christianity and of the 
Church served at first to brand mental 

* See the memorable passage in the Phxdras, p. 
244 A, etc Plato went so far as to suggest that the 
name pi'^tf, seer, was derived from fioivofiai^ to rage 
or be mad. 

t Phxdrus, loc. dt Mr. Lecky points out that the 
Greeks had no asylums for the insane (History of Eu- 
ropean Morals, vol. li., p. 90). On the other hand. 
Dr. Maudsley tells us that Oreek scientific opinion on 
the subject was an anticipation of modern ideas (Re- 
sponsibility in Mental Disease, p. 6). 


derangement with the mark of degrada- 
tion. The doctrine of possession now 
assumed a distinctly repellent form by the 
introduction of the Oriental idea of an evil 
spirit taking captive the human frame, and 
using it as an instrument of its foul pur- 
poses. The full development of this idea 
of demoniacal possession in the Middle 
Acres led, as we know, to many cruelties. 
And though Christianity showed its hu- 
mane side in making provision for the 
insane by asylums, the treatment of men- 
tal disease during this period was, on the 
whole, marked by much harshness.* 

This debasement of the idea of mad- 
ness had, however, no appreciable effect 
in dissolving the companionship of the 
two ideas in popular thought. For the 
attitude of the Church was, for the most 
part, hostile to new ideas, and so to men 
of original power. In sooth we know that 
they were again and again branded as 
heretics, and as wicked men possessed by 
the devil. And thus genius was attached 
to insanity by a new bond of kinship. 

The transition to the modern period 
introduces us to a new conception both of 
genius and of insanity. The impulse of 
inquisitiveness, the delight in new ideas, 
aided by the historical spirit with its deep 
sense of indebtedness to the past, have 
led the later world to extol intellectual 
greatness. We have learned to see in it 
the highest product of nature's organic 
energy, the last and greatest miracle of 
evolution. On the other hand, the mod- 
ern mind has ceased to see in insanity a 
supernatural agency, and in assimilating 
it to other forms of disease has taken up 
a humane and helpful attitude towards it. 

Such a change of view might seem at 
first to necessitate a sharp severance of 
the new ideas. For while it places gen- 
ius at the apex of evolution, it reduces 
madness to a form of disintegration and 
dissolution. Nevertheless, we meet in 
modern literature with an unmistakable 
tendency to maintain the old association 
of ideas. Genius is now recognized as 
having a pathological side, or a side re- 
lated to mental disease. Among our own 
writers we have so healthy and serene a 

* See Lecky, op. cit, vol. ii., p. 93, etc. ; cf. Maudsley, 
•p, cit. p. 10. 


spirit as Shakespeare asserting a degree 
of affinity between poetic creation and 
madness : — 

The lunatick, the lover, and the poet 

Are of imagination all compact, etc 

(Midsummer Night^s Dream, act v., sc i.) 

A more serious affirmation of a propin- 
quity is to be found in the well-known 
lines of Dryden : — 

Great wits are sure to madness near allied. 
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.* 

As might be expected, French writers, 
with their relish for pungent paradox, 
have dwelt with special fulness on this 
theme. "Infinis esprits," writes Mon- 
taigne on a visit to Tasso in his asylum, 
** se trouvent ruinez par leur propre force 
et soupplesse." Pascal observes that 
" Textr^me esprit est voisin de Textrfime 
folie.*' In a similar strain Diderot writes, 
**0h ! que le g^nie et la folic se touchent 
de bien pr^s !" The French writer who 
most distinctly emphasizes the proposition 
is Lamartine. " Le grfnie," he observes in 
one place, "porte en lui un principe de 
destruction, de mort, de /(?//>, comme le 
fruit porte le ver ; " and again he speaks of 
that " maladie mentale " which is called 

In German literature it is Goethe, the 
perfect ideal, as it would seem, of healthy 
genius, who dwells most impressively on 
this idea. His drama "Tasso" is an 
elaborate attempt to uncover and expose 
the morbid growths which are apt to cling 
parasitically about the tender plant of 
genius. With this must be mentioned, 
as another striking literary presentment 
of the same subject, the two eloquent pas- 
sages on the nature of genius in Schopen- 
hauer's opus maj^nttm. 

Against this compact consensus of 
opinion on the one side we have only a 
rare protest like that of Charles Lamb on 
behalf of the radical sanity of genius.f 
Such a mass of opinion cannot lightly be 
dismissed as valueless. It is impossible 
to set down utterances of men like Dide- 
rot or Goethe to the envy of mediocrity. 

• Absalom and Achitophel, part i., line 163. 
t See his essay, ** Sanity of True Genius," in the 
*' Last Essays of £lia." 



Nor can we readily suppose that so many 
penetrating intellects have been misled by 
a passion for startling paradox. We are 
to remember, moreover, that this is not a 
view of the great man ab extra^ like that 
of the vulgar already referred to ; it is the 
opinion of members of the distinguished 
fraternity themselves who are able to ob- 
serve and study genius from the inside. 

Still, it may be said, this is after all 
only unscientific opinion. Has science, 
with her more careful method of investi- 
gating and proving, anything to say on 
this interesting theme? It is hardly to 
be supposed that she would have over- 
looked so fascinating a subject. And, as 
a matter of fact, it has received a consid- 
erable amount of attention from patholo- 
gists and psychologists. And here for 
once science appears to support the pop- 
ular opinion. The writers who have made 
the subject their special study agree as to 
the centra] fact that there is a relation 
between high intellectual endowment and 
mental derangement, though they di£fer 
in their way of defining this relation. 
This conclusion is reached both induc- 
tively by a survey of facts, and deduc- 
tively by reasoning from the known na- 
ture and conditions of great intellectual 
achievement on the one hand, and of men- 
tal disease on the other.* 

What we require first of all is clearly as 
many instances as can be found of men of 
genius who have exhibited intellectual or 
moral peculiarities which are distinctly 
symptomatic of mental disease. Such a 
collection of facts, if sufi[icient, will supply 
us with a basis for induction. In making 
this collection we need not adopt any 
theory respecting the nature either of 
genius or of mental disease. It is suffi- 
cient to say that we include under the 
former term all varieties of originative 
power, whether in art, science, or practical 
affairs. And as to the latter term, it is 
enough to start with the assumption that 
fully developed insanity is recognizable 
by certain well-known marks; and that 
there are degrees of mental deterioration, 
and a gradual transition from mental 
health to mental disease, the stages of 
which also can, roughly at least, be marked 
off and identified. 

• The principal authoritative utterances on the sub- 
ject are Moreau, ** La Psychologic morbide, etc;" 
Hagen. '* Ueber die Verwandischaft des Genies mit 
dem Irresein" (Zeiischrift fiir Psychiatric, Band 33); 
and Radestock, "Genie und Wahnsinn" (Breslau, 
18S4). This last contains the latest review of the whole 
que>tion, and is writteh in a thoroughly cautious scien- 
tific spirit. I have derived much aid from it io pre- 
parinp; this essay. 

In surveying the facts which have been 
relied on by writers, we shall lay most 
stress on mental as distinguished from 
bodily or nervous symptoms. And of 
these we may conveniently begin with the 
less serious manifestations. 

I. The lowest grade of mental disturb- 
ance is seen in that temporary appearance 
of irrationality which comes from an ex- 
treme state of ** abstraction " or absence 
of mind. To the vulgar, as already hinted, 
all intense preoccupation with ideas, by 
calling off the attention from outer things 
and giving a dreamlike appearance to the 
mental state, is apt to appear symptomatic 
of *^ queerness " in the head. But in order 
that it may find a place among distinctly 
abnormal features this absence of mind 
must attain a certain depth and persis- 
tence. The ancient story of Archimedes, 
and the amusing anecdotes of Newton's 
fits, if authentic, might be said perhaps to 
illustrate the border line between a normal 
and an abnormal condition of mind. A 
more distinctly pathological case is that 
of Beethoven, who could not be made to 
understand why his standing in his night 
attire at an open window should attract 
the irreverent notice of the street boys. 
For in this case we have a temporary in- 
capacity to perceive exterior objects and 
their relations ; and a deeper incapacity 
of a like nature clearly shows itself in poor 
Johnson's standing before the town clock 
vainly trying to make out the hour. 

This same aloofness of mind from the 
external world betrays itself in many of 
the eccentric habits attributed to men and 
women of genius. Here again Johnson 
serves as a good instance. His incon- 
venient habit of suddenly breaking out 
with scraps of the Lord's Prayer in a 
fashionable assembly marks a distinctly 
dangerous drifting away of the inner life 
from the firm anchorage of external fact. 

In the cases just considered we have to 
do with a kind of mental blindness to 
outer circumstances. A further advance 
along the line of intellectual degeneration 
is seen in the persistence of vivid ideas, 
commonly anticipations of evil of some 
kind, which have no basis in external real- 
ity. Johnson's dislike to particular alleys 
in his London walks, and Madame de 
Stael's bizarre idea that she would suffer 
from cold when buried, may be taken as 
examples of these painful delusions or 
idies fixes. A more serious stage of sucb 
delusions is seen in the case of Pasca', 
who is said to have been haunted by the 
fear of a gulph yawning just in front of 
him, which sometimes became so over- 



masterino: that he had to be fastened by a 
chain to keep him from leaping forward. 

It is plain that in this last case we touch 
on the confines of sense illusion. It is 
probable that hallucinations may occur as 
very rare experiences in the case of normal 
and healthy minds. Yet though not con- 
fined to states of insanity, illusions of the 
senses are commonly if not always indic- 
ative of at least a temporary disturbance 
of the psycho-physical organism. And 
we have on record a considerable number 
of instances of eminent men who were 
subject to these deceptions. It is not 
only the religious recluse, with his ill- 
nourished body, and his persistent with- 
drawal from the corrective touch of outer 
things, who experiences them. Luther was 
their victim as well as Loyola. Auditory 
hallucinations — that is, the hearing of im- 
aginary voices — appear to have occurred 
to Malebranche and Descartes, as they 
certainly did to Johnson. The instances 
of visual hallucinations are perhaps more 
numerous still. Pope, Johnson, Byron, 
Shelley, are said to have had their visions. 
£veo so strong and well-balanced a mind 
as Goethe was not exempted. Nor has the 
active life of the soldier always proved a 
safeguard. The stories of the prognostic 
visions of Brutus and other generals of 
the old world are well known. Among 
modern ones. Napoleon is said to have 
had recurring visits from his guardian 
spirit or genius. 

In the abnormalities just touched on, 
disturbance of intellectual function is the 
chief circumstance, though an element of 
emotional disturbance is commonly ob- 
servable as well. In another class of 
cases this last ingredient becomes the 
conspicuous feature. By this is meant 
such ao accession of general emotional 
excitability, and along with this such a 
hypertrophy and absolute ascendency of 
certain feelings, as to constitute a distinct 
approximation to the disorganized psychi- 
cal state which has been called moral in- 

And here reference may first be made 
to that violence of temper and that extrav- 
agant projection of self and its concerns 
to the displacement of others* claims and 
interests which might be termed a kind 
of moral hallucination. How many names 
in the roll of English writers at once occur 
to the mind in this connection! Pope, 
Johnson, Swift, Byron, to which list must 
now be added Carlyle, may be taken as 
typical instances of the genus irritabiU 
vatum. And among foreign deities, we 
have Voltaire and Rousseau, Handel and 

Beethoven, and even philosophers like 
Herder and Schopenhauer. 

Other emotional disorders take on more 
distinctly the aspect of moral obliquities. 
And here we have specially to do with 
poetic genius. Without adopting the 
slightly contemptuous opinion that poets 
are, as a rule, a ^* sensuous, erotic race," 
one must admit that an untamed wildness 
of amatory passion has been a not infre- 
quent accompaniment of fine poetic imag- 

For a clear illustration, however, of the 
morbid tendency of such irregularities, 
we must go not to the comparatively reg- 
ular life of a Goethe or a Shelley, but to 
the wild and lawless career of a Rousseau, 
of whom it was well said by a clever wom- 
an, " Quand la nature forma Rousseau, la 
sagesse p^trit la pd,te, mais la folie y jeta 
son levain." 

To a tempestuous violence of sexual 
passion there has too commonly joined 
itself a feverish craving for physical stim- 
ulants; f and so the pure, heavenly fiame 
of genius has as^ain and again had to con- 
tend with the foul, murky vapors which 
exhale from the lower animal nature. No 
need to tell again the gloomy story of 
splendid power eaten into and finally de- 
stroyed by the cancer of rampant appe- 
tite. In our own literature the names of 
Ben Jonson, Nat Lee, Burns, and others 
at once occur to the student. £ds:ar Al- 
lan Poe represents the same tragic fate- 
fulness of genius in American letters. 
Among Frenchmen we have as conspicu- 
ous examples Villon and De Musset. 
Among Germans, GUnther, Burger, and 
numbers of those about Herder and 
Goethe in the turbulent times of the 
Sturm und Drang^ and Hoffmann, the 
novelist, suffered the same moral ship- 

II. We may now pass to another class 
of cases in which the pathological charac- 
ter is still more plainly discernible. Out- 
bursts of fierce passionateness may per- 
haps be thought by some to be after all 
only marks of a certain kind of robust 
vitality. But no one will say this of the 
gloomy depression, the melancholy brood- 
ing on personal ills, ending sometimes in 
distinctly hypochondriac despondency, 
which have not unfrequently been the 

* Even the spiritual Dante has been found wantini^ 
in this matter by no more strait-laced an authority than 

t These include not only alcoholic drinks but opium, 
to the use of which Voltaire* Madame de Stael, Cole- 
ridge, and De Quincey, and prcfbably others were ad- 
dicted. The excitement of gambiinx seemed in Less- 
ing's case to fill the place of physical stimulants. 



accompaDimeot of great iDtell^ctual pow- 
er. It was remarked by Aristotle, who 
was a long way the shrewdest and roost 
scientific observer of antiquity, that all 
men of genius have been melancholic or 
atrabilious.* He instances Empedocles, 
Socrates, and Plato, and the larger num- 
ber of the poets. And the page of mod- 
ern biographic literature would supply 
many a striking illustration of the same 
temperament. The pessimism of John- 
son, Swift, Byron, and Carlyle, of Scho- 
penhauer and Lenau, of Leopardi and of 
Lamartine, may perhaps be taken as a 
signal manifestation of the gloom which 
is apt to encompass great and elevated 
spirits, like the mists which drift towards 
and encircle the highest mountain peaks. 

In some cases this melancholy assumes 
a more acute form, giving rise to the 
thought, and even the act of suicide. 
Among those who have confessed to have 
experienced the impulse may be men- 
tioned Goethe in the Werther days, Beet- 
hoven during the depression brought on 
by his deafness, Chateaubriand in his 
youth, and George Sand also in her early 
days. The last, writing of her experience, 
says : '* Cette sensation (at the sight of 
water, a precipice, etc.) fut quelquefois si 
vive, si subite, si bizarre, que je pus bien 
constater que c*^tait une esp^ce de folie 
dont j'^tais atteinte." Johnson's weari- 
ness of life was, it seems certain, only 
prevented from developing into the idea 
of suicide by his strong religious feeling 
and his extraordinary dread of death, 
which was itself, perhaps, a morbid symp- 

In some cases this idea prompted to 
actual attempts to take away life. The 
story of Cowper's trying to hang himself 
and afterwards experiencing intense reli- 
gious remorse is well known. Another 
instance is that of Saint-Simon, whose 
enormous vanity itself looks like a form 
of monomania, and who, in a fit of de- 
spondency, fired a pistol at his head, hap- 
pily with no graver result than the loss of 
an eye. Alfieri, who was the victim of 
the **most horrid melancholy," tried on 
one occasion, after being bled by a sur- 
geon, to tear off the bandage in order to 
bleed to death. Among those who suc- 
ceeded in taking away their life are Chat- 
terton, whose mind had been haunted by 

• ** Cur homines qui in^enio claruerunt vel in ^tudiis 
philosophic, vel in republicd admin istrandl, vel in car- 
mine pangendo, vel in artibus exercendis, melancolicos 
omnes fui^se videaraus?" Prob. xxx. Aristotle's au- 
thority on the point is quoted by Cicero, Tuscui. Disp. 
i* ii i ^c Divin. L 38. 

the idea from early life, Kleist the poet, 
and Beneke the philosopher. 

III. We may now pass to the most 
important group of facts — namely, in- 
stances of men of genius who have suf- 
fered from fully developed mental disease. 
In certain cases this disruption of the 
organs of mind shows itself in old age, 
and here, it is evident, we have to distin- 
guish what is known as senile dementia 
from the impairment of faculty incident 
to old age. A clear instance of cerebral 
disease is afforded by the botanist Lin* 
naeus, whose faculties gave way after a 
stroke. The mental stupor into which 
the poet Southey finally sank was a simi- 
lar phenomenon. Swift's fatal disease, 
the nature of which has only recently been 
cleared up by science, was cerebral disor- 
ganization brought on by peripheral dis- 
ease in the organ of hearing. Zimmer* 
mann, the author of the work on solitude, 
who had been a hypochondriac from the 
age of twenty, ended his life in a state of 
melancholy indistinguishable from insan- 
ity. The final collapse, under the pressure 
of pecuniary anxieties, of Scott's cerebral 
powers is too well known to need more 
than a bare mention. 

Besides these instances of senile col- 
lapse, there are several cases of insanity 
showing itself in the vigorous period of 
life. Sometimes, as in the instance of 
Richelieu, who had shown himself an er- 
ratic being from his childhood, the mad- 
ness appeared as a sudden and transient 
fit of delirium. In other cases the dis- 
order took a firmer hold on the patient. 
Charles Lamb, Handel, and Auguste 
Comte suffered from insanity for a time, 
and had to be put under restraint. Tasso, 
whose whole nature was distinctly tinged 
with the "insane temperament," had 
again and again to be confined as a mad- 
man. Donizetti was also for a time in- 
sane and confined in an asylum. Among 
those who became hopelessly insane were 
the poets Lenau and Holderlin and the 
composer Schumann, the latter of whom 
had long been the victim of melancholy 
and hallucinations, and had before his 
confinement attempted to drown himself 
in the Rhine. 

I have preferred to dwell on the psy- 
chical aspect of the relation between 
genius and disease. But no adequate in- 
vestigation of the subject is possible which 
does not consider the physical aspect as 
I well. No one now perhaps really doubts 
I that to every degree of mental disturb- 
I ance and mental disorganization there 
i corresponds some degree of deterioration 



and disorganizatioo of the nerve centres. 
Psychical disturbance and disruption pro- 
ceed part passu with physical. 

This being so, it is pertinent to our 
study to remark that men of genius have 
in a surprising number of cases been 
affected by forms of nervous disease, 
which, though not having such well- 
marked psychical accompaniments as oc- 
cur in states of insanity, are known to be 
allied to these. 

IV. To begin with, it seems certain that 
a number of great men have died from 
disease of the nerve centres. Among 
other names may be mentioned Pascal, 
who had all his life been the victim of 
nervous disorders, and who succumbed, 
at the early age of thirty-nine, to paralysis 
accompanied by convulsions. Two of 
the greatest scientinc men, Kepler and 
Cuvier, died, according to Moreau, from 
disease of the brain. Rousseau was car- 
ried off by an attack of apoplexy. Mo- 
zart's early death was due to brain dis- 
ease, showing itself in other ways by 
morbid delusions, faintingfits, and con- 
vulsions. Another musician, Mendels- 
sohn, succumbed to an attack of apo- 
plexy. Heine's fatal malady, which kept 
him for seven years a prisoner in his 
** mattress-grave, was disease of the 
lower nerve centres in the spinal cord. 

Other men of genius have suffered 
from nervous disorders from time to time. 
Moli^re was the subject of recurring con- 
vulsions, an attack of which would pre- 
vent his working for fifteen days. Alfieri, 
to whose morbid mental symptoips refer- 
ence has already been made, suffered 
when young from a disease of the lym- 
phatic system, and was afterwards liable 
to convulsions. Paganini, the musician, 
suffered from an attack of catalepsy when 
four years old, and later on was the victim 
of recurring convulsions; and Schiller, 
who was very delicate from youth, was 
also the subject of recurring fainting-fits 
and convulsions. 

The lesser forms of nervous disorder — 
headache, malaise, and recurring periods 
of nervous prostration — are too common 
among all brain-workers to call for special 
notice here. The latest biography ot a 
woman of genius strikingly illustrates 
this milder form of the penalty which mor- 
tals have to pay for daring to aspire to the 
ranks ot the immortals. In George Eliot 
we have one more name added to the list 
ot great ones to whom, to use the words 
of a French writer, has been granted " le 
funeste privilege d'entendre crier h. toute 
beure les ressorts de leur machine." 

V. One other significant group of facts 
remains to be touched on. In a consider- 
able number of cases it has been ascer- 
tained that insanity or other forms of 
nervous disorder has shown itself in the 
same family as genius, whether as its fore- 
runner, companion, or successor. Cha- 
teaubriand's father is said to have died of 
apoplexy. Schopenhauer's grandmother 
and uncle were imbecile. Several distin- 
guished men had insane sisters, among 
others Richelieu, Diderot, Hegel,* and 
Charles Lamb. One of Mendelssohn's 
sons became insane.f 

I have endeavored in this brief review 
of the alleged facts to give an adequate 
impression of their variety and range. It 
now remains to inquire into their precise 
evidential value. 

The first question that naturally arises 
here is whether the facts are well authen- 
ticated and accurately presented. A cau- 
tious mind will readily reflect that if 
genius as such is apt to assume an ab- 
normal aspect to average common sense, 
biographers may easily have invented, or 
at least exaggerated, some of the alleged 
morbid characteristics of the great; and 
as a matter of fact there is good reason to 
suppose that this falsifying of the record 
of greatness has taken place. I may refer 
to the story of the madness and suicide 
of Lucretius, which is extremely doubtful, 
and may have grown out of a religious 
horror at the supposed tendency of his 
writings. The story of Newton's mad- 
ness, again, which is given by a French 
biographer, and which is ably refuted by 
Sir David Brewster, may owe much of its 
piquancy to what may be called the un- 
conscious inventiveness of prejudice. 
Very possibly the stories of the visions of 
Hrutus, Cromwell, and others have had a 
like origin. 

Again, it will be said that even medical 
men — wishing like others to magnify 
their office — may have been too ready in 
spying out the symptoms of insanity. 
H they are fallible in dealing with the 
living subject, all of whose physical and 
mental characteristics are accessible to 
observation, how much more likely are 
they to err in diagnosing the minds of 
the dead by help of a few fragmentary 
indications only ? I think the force of this 

• That Hegel's sister was insane and drowned her- 
self is asserted by Moreau, on the authority of an article 
in thi' Revue eUs Deux A/ondes^ and quoted by Kade- 

t Symptoms of insanity are said by Moreau to have 
shown tliemselves in the families of several eminent 
rulers, including Peter the Great. (See Radestock, p. 
4 seg.) 



objection, too, must be allowed. When, 
for example, a French alienist thinks it 
worth while to write a book in order to 
prove that the belief of Sokrates in a con- 
trolling: divinity (rd cJcu/uovtov) was a symp- 
tom of mental disease, a layman may be 
pardoned for demanding a mode of inves- 
tigation more in accordance with the 
proud claims of science to our absolute 
and unstinted confidence. A well-informed 
and critical reader of M. Moreau's tables 
of bio(>;raphical facts will not fail to chal- 
lenge more than one statement of his 
respecting the morbid characteristics of 
great men, ancient and modern.* 

Allowing, however, for a margin of er- 
ror, I do not think any candid mind will 
fail to see that such a body of facts as 
remains is sufficient to justify us in draw- 
ing a conclusion. If men of the highest 
intellectual calibre were not more liable 
to mental and nervous disorders than oth- 
ers, no such list out of the short roll of 
great names could have been obtained. 
No elaborate calculations are needed, I 
think, to show that mental malady occurs 
^ too often in the history of genius.f 

One might perhaps try to evade the 
unpalatable conclusion by saying that 
there is genius and genius; that it is 
weakly, one sided, and bizarre originality 
which exhibits these unhealthinesses, 
whereas the larger and more vigorous 
productiveness of an Aristotle, a Shake- 
speare, or a Goethe, is free from such 
blemishes.]: I think, however, that our 
facts will compel us to reject this saving 
clause. There is no question among 
competent critics of the splendid quality 
of genius of Swift, of Carlyle, or of Beet- 
hoven. Nor in cases of so-called healthy 
genius can it be said that nothing abnor- 
mal ever shows itself. The above refer- 
ences to Goethe may serve to indicate the 
liability to abnormal deviation even in the 
strongest and seemingly most stable type 
of genius. As for Shakespeare, the in- 
stance commonly referred to by Lamb 
and others who have come to the defence 
of genius, it is enough to say that our 
knowledge of his personality and life is 

• As when he sees in Swift's witty pamphlet on Ire- 
land a distinct prc'^aj'e of oncoming insanity. In some 
cases he is inexact in Mating his facts, as when he says 
that Saitit-Simon committed suicide. 

t The propottion is the more striking, because it is 
not known that insanity is particularly frequent among 
the more hishly educated class of the community. 

t Thls^eems to be the idea of J)r. Oliver Wendsll 
Holmct when he diHtinguishes between }H>ets of "great 
sun-kindled constructive imagination'* and those who 
have •* a certam kind of moonlight genius given them 
to c<imf.>ci,ftate them for their im|)erfection of nature," 
and who are invariably "tinged with melancholy" (Au- 
tocrat of tlie Breakfast Table, chap. viii.). 

I far too meagre to justify any conclusion 
on the point.* 

And this brings us to another very inn- 
portant consideration. If too much has 
been made of the alleged positive in- 
stances, too much has been made also o£ 
the apparent contradictions or exceptions. 
The record of past greatness is far too 
scanty for the most plodding student to 
find all cases of morbid symptoms which 
have presented themselves. We who live 
in an age when a fierce light beats on the 
throne of intellect, when the public which 
i^enius serves is greedy of every trivial 
detail of information respecting its be- 
havior in the curtained recess of private 
life, can hardly understand how our an* 
cestors could have neglected to chronicle 
and to preserve the words and deeds o£ 
the greatest of men. Yet such is the case, 
and the further we go back the scantier 
the biographic page. Inasmuch, too, as 
many of the symptoms of nervous disease 
in the intellectual heroes themselves or 
their families would possess no signifi* 
cance to the 6rdinary lay mind, we may 
feel confident that in many cases where 
we have a fairly full record important data 
are omitted. 

Another thought naturally occurs to 
one in this connection. Without endors- 
ing the ancient proverb that the best men 
die in their youth, we may find good 
grounds for conjecturing that many en- 
dowed with the gift of genius have passed 
away before their powers culminated io 
the production of a great monumental 
work. The early collapse of so many who 
did attain fame suggests this conclusion. 
And among such short-lived and unknown 
recipients of the divine afHatus it seems 
reasonable to infer that there were a con- 
siderable number who succumbed to some 
of those forms of psycho-physical disease 
which have so often attacked their sur* 

It seems then to be an irresistible con- 
clusion that the foremost among human 
intellects have had more than their share 
of the ills that flesh is heir to. The poa-' 
session of genius appears in some way to 
be unfavorable to the maintenance of a 
robust mental health. And here arises 
the question how we are to view this con- 
nection. Is the presence of the creative 
faculty to be regarded as itself an abnor- 
mal excrescence in the human mind ? Or 
is it that the possession and fruition o£ 

* Even the little that we know does not all point one 
way .Against the fine business capacity and so forth 
we have to set the youthful excesses of which rumor 



the faculty are apt to be attended with 
circumstances which are injurious to per- 
fect mental well-beins^? 

In order to understand the precise re- 
lation between two things, we ought to 
know all about the nature and causes of 
each. But this we are very far from 
knowing in the present case. Science 
has, no doubt, done much to clear up the 
ancient mystery of madness. We now 
know that it has a perfect!*, natural origin, 
and we understand a good deal respecting 
the more conspicuous agencies, psychical 
and physical, predisposing and exciting, 
which bring about the malady. Yet so 
intricate is the subject, so complex and 
subtle the influences which may conspire 
to just disturb the mental balance, that in 
many cases, even with a full knowledge 
of an individual and his antecedents, the 
most skilful expert finds himself unable 
to give a complete and exhaustive expla- 
nation of the phenomenon. 

With respect to genius the case is 
much worse. We may have a clearer in- 
tuition of its organic composition than the 
ancients; we may be able better than 
they to describe in psychological terms 
the essential qualities of the original and 
creative mind. But we have hardly ad- 
vanced a step with respect to a knowledge 
of its genesis and antecedents. We do, 
DO doubt, know some little about its fam- 
ily history. Mr. Galton, with his charac 
teristic skill in striking out new paths of 
experimental- research, has brought to 
light a number of interesting facts with 
respect to the hereditary transmission of 
high intellectual endowments. But these 
researches supply no answer to the su- 
premely interesting question. How does 
the light of genius happen to flash out in 
this particular family at this precise mo- 
ment? A preparation there may be, as 
Goethe somewhere hints, in the patient 
building up by the family of sterling intel- 
lectual and moral virtues. But this is 
hardly the beginning of an explanation. 
How much the better are we able to com- 
prehend Carlyle's wondrous gift of spirit- 
ual clairvoyance for knowing that he came 
of a thoroughly sound stock, having more 
than the average, it may be, of northern 
shrewdness? To trace the family char- 
acteristics in a great man is one thing, to 
explain the genius which ennobles and 
immortalizes these is another.* 

* Mach the same applies to what M. Taine and 
others have said about the larger preparation of the i not of genius, to individuals who themselves, or whose 
oriKinal teacher and the artist by the traditions of the parents, have sprung from families in which there has 

In the present state of our knowledge, 
then, genius must be looked upon as the 
most signal and impressive manifestation 
of that tendency of nature to variation 
and individuation in her organic forma- 
tions which modern science is compelled 
to retain among its unexplained facts. 
Why we have a Shakespeare, a Michael 
Angelo, a Goethe here and now, is a ques- 
tion that cannot be answered. Our igno- 
rance of the many hidden threads that 
make up the inextricable skein of causa- 
tion forces us to regard each new appear- 
ance of the lamp of genius with much of 
the wonder, if with something less of the 
superstition, with which the ancients 
viewed it. 

This being so, we must be content with 
a very tentative and provisional theory of 
the relations between genius and mental 
disease. We cannot, for example, follow 
M. Moreau in his hardy paradox that 
genius has as its material substratum a 
semi-morbid state of the brain, a neuro- 
pathic constitution which is substantially 
identical with the ** insane temperament" 
or *' insane neurosis."* For first of all 
the facts do not support such a generaliz- 
ation. If the "genial temperament" in- 
volved a distinct constitutional disposition 
to insanity, the number of great men who 
had actually became insane would cer- 
tainly be much greater than it is. And, 
in the second place, this proposition re- 
poses on far too unsubstantial a basis of 
hypothetical neurology. We know too 
little of the variations of nerve structure 
and function to pronounce confidently on 
the essential identity of the nervous organ* 
ization in the case of the man of genius 
and of the in^iane.f 

A more modest and possibly more hope- 
ful way of approaching the question ap- 
pears to offer itself in the consideration 
of the psychical characteristics of genius. 
We may inquire into those peculiarities 
of sensibility and emotion, as well as of 
intellect, which are discoverable in the 
typical psychical organization of the great 
man, and may trace out some of the more 
important reflex influences of the life of 
intellectual production on his mind and 
character. What we all recognize as gen- 
genius, an article by M. H. Jolv, *' Psychologie de» 
Grands Hommes" (III.) in the Revue Fhilosophiqtn^ 
Augu<it, 18S2. 

• Of>. cit. , ]i. 463 req. 

t Dr. Maudsley is more guarded, contentins; himself 
with saying: "It is truly remarkable how much man- 
kind has been indebted for special displays of talent, if 

community and the spirit of the age. See, for a careful 
treatment of the whole question of the antecedents of 

been some predisposition to insanity" (Responsibility 
in Mental Dtsea&e, p. 47). 


ius displays itself in some larcre, original 
conception, whether artistic, scientific, or 
practical. And it seems not improbable 
that by a closer investigation of the con- 
ditions and the results of this large con- 
structive activity of mind we may find a 
clue to the apparent anomaly that grand 
intellectual powers are so frequently beset 
with mental and moral infirmity. These 
lurking-places of abnormal tendencies 
will, we may expect, betray themselves 
more readily in the case of artistic and 
especially poetic genius, which has, in- 
deed, always been viewed as the most 
pronounced form, and as the typical rep- 
resentative of creative power. 

No careful student of genius can fail to 
see that it has its<roots in a nervous or- 
ganization of exceptional delicacy. Keen- 
ness of sensibility, both to physical and 
mental stimuli, is one of the fundamental 
attributes of the original mind. This 
preternatural sensitiveness of nerve has 
been illustrated in the two latest records 
of poetic genius. Carlyle*s lively impres- 
sibility to sounds and other sensuous 
agents is familiar to all.* And of George 
Eliot it has been well said that ** her nerves 
were servile to every skyey influence." 
And what a range and intensity of emo- 
tion are at once suggested by names like 
Milton, Dante, Shelley, Heine! 

This tineness of the sentient fibre stands 
in the closest relation to the intellectual 
side of genius. It is not so much an ac- 
companiment of the creative imagination 
as Us vitalizing principle. The wide and 
penetrating vision of the poet is the cor- 
relative of his quick, delicate, and many- 
sided sensibility. And the stimulus which 
ever urges him towards the ideal region, 
which makes him devote his days to the 
pursuit of some ravishing idea, has its 
origin in his rare, almost superhuman, 
capacity of feeling. The modest limits of 
the real world fail to slake his thirst for 
the delight of beauty, for the raptures of 
the sublime. Hence the impulse to fash- 
ion new worlds of his own. And by such 
ideal activities the emotional sensibilities 
which prompted them are deepened and 

It is easy to see, from this glance at the 
fundamental conditions of imaginative 
creation, that it has one of its main im- 
pulses in uncommon experiences of suf- 
fering. The tine nervous organization, 
tremulously responsive to every touch, 
constitutes in itself, in this all too imper- 

• Goethe, Schopenhauer, and other great men were 
part.cuiany seuaitive to rounds. 


feet world of ours, a special dispensation 
of sorrow. Exquisite sensibility seems 
to be connected with a delicate poise of 
nervous structure eminently favorable to 
the experience of jarring and dislocating 
shock. And it is this preponderance of 
rude shock over smooth, agreeable stimu- 
lation — of a senseof dissonance in things 
over the joyous consciousness of harmony 
— which seems to supply one of the most 
powerful incitants to the life of imagina* 
tion. Hence the dark streak of melancholy 
which one so often detects in the early 
years of the great man. 

Such an attitude of mind must entail 
suffering in other ways. As the biography 
of the man of genius often tells us, he is 
apt to become aware, at a painfully early 
date, that his exceptional endowments and 
the ardent consuming impulses which be- 
long to them collide with the utilities and 
purposes of ordinary life. The soul intent 
on dreaming its secret dream of beauty is 
unfit for the business which makes up the 
common working life of plain, prosaic 
men. The youth to whom the embodi- 
ment of a noble artistic idea or the dis- 
covery of a large, fructifying moral truth, 
is the one absorbing interest, will be apt 
to take a shockingly low view of banking, 
schoolmastering, and the other respecta- 
ble occupations of ordinary citizens. 

It follows that the man of genius is, by 
his very constitution and vocation, to a 
considerable extent a solitary. He is apt 
to offend the world into which he is born 
by refusing to bow the knee to its conven- 
tional deities. His mood of discontent 
with things presents itself as a reflection 
on their contented view. On the other 
hand, his peculiar leanings and aspirations 
are incomprehensible to them, and stamp 
him as an alien. *M1 y a peu de vices," 
says Chamfort, with a grim irony, "qui 
empdchent un homme d'avoir beaucoup 
d'amis. autant que peuvent le faire de trop 
grandes qualit^s." Hence the profound 
solitude of so many of the earth's great 
ones, which even the companionships of 
the home have not sufficed to fill up. And 
it must be remembered that the ardent 
emotions of the man of genius bring their 
extra need of sympathy. Even the con- 
sciousness of intellectual dissent from 
others may become to a deeply sympa- 
thetic nature an anguish. " I believe you 
know *' (writes Leopardi to a friend), *» but 
I hope you have not experienced, how 
thought can crucify and martyrize any 
one who thinks somewhat differently from 
1 Such isolation is distinctly unfavorable 



to mental health. It deprives a man of 
wholesome contact with others' experi- 
ence and ideas, and disposes to abnormal 
eccentricities of thou{;ht. It profoundly 
a£fects the emotional nature, breeding 
melancholy, suspicion of others, misan- 
thropy, and other unwholesome progeny. 
The '* strange interior tomb life," of which 
Carlyle speaks, is a striking example of 
the influence of this isolation in fostering 
the minute germs of morbid delusion. 

If now we turn to the process of intel- 
lectual origination, we shall And new ele* 
ments of danger, new forces adverse to 
the perfect serenity of mental health. If 
the rich biographical literature of modern 
times teaches us anything, it is that orig- 
inal production is the severest strain of 
human faculty, the most violent and ex- 
hausting form of cerebral action. The 
pleasing Action that the perfectly shaped 
artistic product occurs to the creative 
mind as a kind of happy thought is at 
once dispelled by a little study of great 
men's recorded experience. All fine orig- 
inal work, it may be safely said, represents 
severe intellectual labor on the part of the 
producer, not necessarily at the moment 
of achievement, but at least in a prepara- 
tory collection and partial elaboration of 
material. The rapidity with which Scott 
threw off his masterpieces of fiction is 
only understood by remembering how he 
had steeped his imagination for years in 
the life, the scenery, and the history of his 

It is to be remembered, too, that this 
swift and seemingly facile mode of crea- 
tion is by no means an easy play of faculty, 
akin to the spontaneous sportiveness of 
witty talk. It involves the full tension of 
the mental powers, the driving of the 
cerebral machine at full speed. Accord- 
ing to the testimony of more than one 
roan of genius, this fierce activity is fed 
and sustained by violent emotional excite- 
ment.* The notion of producing a work 
of high imaginative power in a state of 
perfect cold blood is, as Plato long ago 
pointed out, absurd. Spiritual generation 
only takes place when the soul burns and 
throbs as with a fever. At the moment 
of productive inspiration the whole being 
is agitated to its depths, and the latent 
deposits of years of experience come to 
the surface. This full sprmgtide of imag- 
ination, this cerebral turmoil and clash of 
currents, makes the severest demands on 

* Byroa. Goethe, Dickens, and others attest to this. 
Compare what George Ehot says about the way in 
which the third volume of **Adam Bede" was pro- 
duced (Ltle* voL ii., p. 155). 

the controlling and guiding forces of voli- 
tion. And it is only when the mind is 
capable of the highest effort of sustained 
concentration that the process of selecting 
and organizing can keep pace with the 
rapid inflow of material. Hence, though 
the excitement may in certain cases be 
intensely pleasurable, it is nearly always 
fatiguing and wearing. 

But great artistic works are not always 
flashed into the world by this swift electric 
process. Some books that men will not 
let die have been the result of lengthened 
toil troubled by many a miserable check 
and delay. The record of Carlyle's expe- 
rience sufficiently illustrates the truth that 
there is no necessary relation between 
rapidity of invention and execution and 
artistic value of result.* Much depends 
on the passing mood, more still on the 
temperament of the individual artist. 
There are others besides Carlyle to whom 
spiritual parturition has been largely an 
experience of suffering, the pangs being 
but rarely submerged in the large, joyous 
consciousness that a new idea is born 
into the world. And when this is so there 
is another kind of strain on the mental 
machine. The struggle with intellectual 
obstacle, the fierce, passionate resolve to 
come ins Reine which every student ex- 
periences in a humble way, becomes some- 
thing for the spectator to tremble at. 

Is it surprising that such states of men- 
tal stress and storm should afterwards 
leave the subject exhausted and prostrate ? 
The wild excitement of production is apt 
to dull the sense still further to the pro- 
saic enjoyments with which ordinary mor- 
tals have to content themselves. More 
than this, the long and intense preoccupa- 
tion with the things of the imagination is 
apt to induce a certain lethargy and stupor 
of the senses, in which the sharp outlines 
of reality are effaced in a misty, dreamlike 
phantasmagoria. The reader of Carlyle's 
"Memoirs" need not be reminded how 
plainly all this appears in his experience. 
Even the warm and gladdening ray of 
dawning prosperity failed to cheer him in 
these hours of spiritual collapse. And he 
exclaims in one place that there is no 
other pleasure and possession for him 
but that of feeling himself working and 

* M. Jfoly illustrates the same fact by the experience 
of Voltaire, Revue Philosophiquet November, iSSa, 
pp. 406, 497. 

t Thomas Carlyle, vol. ii., p. 129. Probably one 
reason why painters so rarely show morbid mental traits 
is that in their case the function of the senses can never 
be so completely overborne by the weight of imagioa- 


In addition to these adverse forces, 
which have their origin in the common 
conditions of the life of genius, there are 
othecs which, though less constant, pre- 
sent themselves very frequently in co- 
operation with the first. It has often been 
remarked that the man of decided origi- 
nality of thought, being as it were one 
born out of due time, has to bear the 
strain of production for a while uncheered 
by the smile of recognition. And when 
there is great originalitv, not only in the 
ideas, but in the form of expression, such 
recognition may come too slowly to be of 
any remunerative value. Neglect or ridi- 
cule is the form of greeting which the 
world has often given to the propounder 
of a new truth ; and where, as frequently 
happens, the want of instant recognition 
means the pressure of poverty, which 
chafes with unusual severity the delicate 
fibres of sensitive men, we have a new 
and considerable force added to the agen- 
cies which threaten to undermine the not 
too stable edifice of the great man's men 
tal and moral constitution. Johnson, Less- 
ing, Burns, Leopardi, and many another 
name, will here occur to those familiar 
with the lives of modern men of letters. 

In view of this combination of threat- 
ening agencies, one begins to understand 
the many eloquent things which have been 
said about the fatality of great gifts. 
Thus one finds a meaning in the definition 
of poetic genius given by Lamartine when 
speaking of Byron — '* a vibration of the 
human fibre as strong as the heart of roan 
can bear without breaking." 

It is not meant here that even when all 
these destructive elements are present a 
distinctly pathological condition of mind 
must necessarily ensue. Their effect may 
be fully counteracted by other and resist- 
ing agencies. Of these the two most im- 
portant are bodily energy and health on 
the one hand, and strength of will or 
character on the other. Where these are 
both found in a high degree of perfection, 
as in Goethe, we have a splendid example 
of healthy genius. On the other hand, if 
either, and still more, if both, of these are 
wanting, we have a state of things which 
is exceedingly likely to develop a dis- 
tinctly pathological state of mind.* 

How, it may be asked, does it commonly 
fare with the world's intellectual heroes 
with respect to these means of defence ? 
As to the physical defence, it is known 
that a number of great men have had a 

* That is, quite apart from any inherited physical 
predisposiuon to nervous disease. 


physique fairly adequate to the severe 
demands made on the nervous organiza* 
tion. They were men of powerful frame, 
strong muscles, and good digestion. But 
such robustness of bodily health seems by 
no means the common rule. The number 
of puny and ill-formed men who have 
achieved marvellous things in intellectual 
production is a fact which has often been 
remarked on. So common an accompani- 
ment of great intellectual exertion is de« 
fective digestion, that an ingenious writer 
has tried to show that the maladies o£ 
genius have their main source in dyspep- 
sia.* No Englishman in thinking of this 
question can fail to recollect that the 
three of his countrywomen who have given 
most distinct proof of creative power — 
Charlotte Bronte, Mrs. Browning, and 
George Eliot — were hampered with a 
physical frame pitiably unequal to support 
the cerebral superstructure.! 

Coming now to the moral defence, the 
thought at once suggests itself that, ac- 
cording to the testimony of more than one 
writer, genius consists in preternatural 
force of will more than in anything else. 
It is, we are told, only the man with an 
infinite capacity to take pains who is truly 
great. The prolonged intense concentra- 
tion of mind which precedes the final 
achievement is a severe exertion and strik- 
ing manifestation of will. 

At the same time, a moment's thought 
will show us that this patient mental in- 
cubation is no proof of the higher qualities 
of will and moral character.^ The appro- 
priateness of the old way of speaking of 
creative inspiration as a possession is seen 
in the fact that the will has little to do 
with bringing on the condition. '*The 
author,*' said Lord Beaconsfield on one 
occasion, **is a being with a predisposi- 
tion which with him is irresistible, a bent 
which he cannot in any way avoid, whether 
it drags him to the abstruse researches of 

* R. R. Madden, On the Infirmities of Genius. 

t Schopenhauer, in the passages uf his work already 
referred to, discusses in a curious and characteristic 
way the physical basis of genius. Mureau quotes ap- 
provingly the remark of Lecanus that men of the finest 
genius were** of a feeble constitution and often infirm.** 
On the other h^nd, Mr. (>alton, in his " Hereditary 
Genius," contends that the heroes of history are at 
least up to the average of men in physical strength. It 
is to be remarked, h<iwever, that the reference to uni- 
versity stati^itics is apt to mislead here. Senior wraiH 
glers can hardly be taken as representative of creative 

t It is evident that only speculative, as distinguished 
from practical genius, is here referred to. The man of 
great constructive oowers in a£Eairs — the statesman, 

feneral, and so forth — requires will in the higher and 
uUer sense. And it has been remarked that thes« 
organizing intellects rarely exhibit pathological symp* 



eradition, or induces him to mount into 
the feverish and turbulent atmosphere of 
imagination/' This sense of a quasi-ex- 
terior pressure and compulsion is attested 
by more than one child of genius. In 
some cases, more particularly, perhaps, 
among "tone poets," we find this mastery 
of the individual mind by the creative 
impulse assuming the striking form of a 
sudden abstraction of the thoughts from 
the surroundings of the moment. And 
throughout the whole of the creative proc- 
ess, the will, though as we have seen ex- 
ercised in a peculiarly severe effort, is not 
exercised fully and in its highest form. 
There is no deliberate choice of activity 
here. The man does not feel free to stop 
or to go on. On the contrary, the will is 
in this case pressed into the service of 
the particular emotion that strives for 
utterance, the particular artistic impulse 
that is irresistibly bent on self-realization. 
There is nothing here of the higher moral 
effort of will, in choosing what we are not 
at the moment inclined to, and resisting 
the seductive force of extraneous excit- 

These fragmentary remarks may help 
OS to understand the facts of the case. 
A certain proportion of great thinkers and 
artists have shown moral as well as intel- 
lectual heroism. Men who were able to 
take the destruction of a MS. representing 
long and wearisome research as Newton 
aod Carlyle took it .must have had some- 
thing of the stuff of which the stoutest 
character is woven. The patient upbear- 
ing against hardship of men like Johnson 
aod Lessing is what gives the moral relish 
to the biography of men of letters. More 
than one intellectual leader, too, has 
shown the rare quality of practical wis- 
dom. Goethe's calm strength of will dis- 
playing itself in a careful ordering of the 
daily life is matter of common knowledge. 
Beethoven managed just to keep himself 
right by resolute bodily exercise. In 
George Eliot an exceptional feeling of 
moral responsibility sufficed for a nice 
economizing of the fitful supply of physi- 
cal energy. 

At the same time, our slight study of 
the ways of genius has familiarized us 
with illustrations of striking moral weak- 
nesses. We have seen a meaning in 
Rochefoucauld's paradox that " il n*appar- 

* This fact of the absence of choice, and the ordinary 
oiM>peratioa of the personal wiil in artistic production, 
is illustrated further in the rapidity with which the mind 
casts off and ignores its offspring. '* £st-ce bien moi 
qui ai fait cela r '* asked Voltaire once, on seeing one of 
bis dramas acted. George Eliot attests to this strange 
nninaterDal feeling towai-ds her literary children. 

tient qu*aux grands hommes d'avoir de 
grands d^fauts.'' The large draught of 
mental energy into the channels of imag- 
inative production is apt to leave the will 
ill provided in working out the multifari- 
ous tasks of a temperate and virtuous life. 

Our conclusion is that the possession 
of genius carries with it special liabilities 
to the action of the disintegrating forces 
which environ us all. It involves a state 
of delicate equipoise, of unstable equilib- 
rium, in the psychophysical organization. 
Paradoxical as it may seem, one may ven- 
ture to affirm that great original power of 
mind is incompatible with nice adjustment 
to surroundings, and so with perfect well- 
being. And here it is that we see the 
real qualitative difference between genius 
and talent. This last means superiof en- 
dowment in respect of the common prac- 
tical intelligence which all men understand 
and appraise. The man of talent follows 
the current modes of thought, keeps his 
eye steadily fixed on the popular eye, pro- 
duces the kind of thing which hits the 
taste of the moment, and is never guilty 
of the folly of abandoning himself to the 
intoxicating excitement of production. 
To the original inventor of ideas and 
moulder of new forms of art this intoxica- 
tion is, as we have seen, everything. He 
is under a kind of divine behest to make 
and fashion something new and great, and 
at the moment of compliance recks little 
of the practical outcome to himself. And 
such recklessness is clearly only one form 
of imprudence, and so of mal-adaptation. 

But if improvident, he is improvident 
in a high cause. Emerson and others 
have taught us the uses of the great man. 
The teacher of a new truth, the discov- 
erer of a higher and worthier form of 
artistic expression, is one in advance of 
his age, who by his giant exertions ena- 
bles the communitv, and even the whole 
race, to reach forward to a further point 
in the line of intellectual evolution. He 
is a scout who rides out well in advance 
of the intellectual army, and who by this 
very advance and isolation from the main 
body is exposed to special perils. Thus 
genius, like philanthropy or conscious 
self-sacrifice for others, is a mode of vari- 
ation of human nature which, though 
unfavorable to the conservation of the 
individual, aids in the evolution of the 

If this be a sound view of the nature 
and social function of the man of genius, 
it may teach more than one practical les- 
son. Does it not, for example, suggest 
that there is room just now for more con- 



sideratioD in dealing with the infirmities 
of great men ? There is no need of exon- 
erating intellectual giants from the graver 
human responsibilities. We do well to 
remember that genius has its own special 
responsibilities that noblesse oblige here 
too. At the same time we shall do well 
also to keep in mind that the life of intel 
lectual creation has its own peculiar be- 
setments, and that in the very task of 
fulfilling his high and eminently humane 
mission, and giving the world of his mind's 
best, the great man may become unequal 
to the smaller fortitudes of every-day life. 
To judge of the degree of blameworthi- 
ness of faults of temper is a nice operation 
which may even transcend the ability of a 
clever and practised critic. Perhaps the 
temper most appropriate to the contem- 
plation of genius, and most conducive to 
fairness of moral judgment, is one in 
which reverence is softened by personal 
gratitude, and this last made more com- 
pletely human by a touch of regretful 

James Sully. 

From BlackiroocTs MaKuine. 



When Jack Venables spoke of stand- 
ing in hesitation at cross-ways on the road 
of life, he did not carry the metaphor 
quite so far as he might have done. Were 
we favored by the sight of a sketch map 
of our track through the world, we should 
see that there were side paths perpetually 
branching off, which to all appearance we 
might just as probably have followed to 
our misfortune or our signal advantage. 
While in any general biographical chart, 
illustrating the career of sundry individ- 
uals, we should see the paths of others 
striking into our own by the most unex- 
pected turns at the least likely places ; so 
that two men thrown together by accident 
or Providence shall thereafter walk on to- 
gether side by side, or possibly even arm 
in arm. 

As he fancied, it was nothing more than 
a caprice which decided Mr. Venables to 
go south by sea, instead of establishing 
communications with the Southern Ex- 
press at Perth. As he remarked to his 
uncle, whom he still politicly took into 
his confidence, *' I may as well think mat- 
ters quietly over, before having a serious 

talk With my father ; it will be better that 
I have something cut and dry to suggest." 

Moray, of course, made no objection ; 
the route by which his young friend might 
travel was a matter of perfect indifference 
to him. As for Jack, he knew himself too 
well to imagine that he could ever think 
when he wished to think. With his mer- 
curial disposition and nervous temper- 
ament, he put far more faith in quick 
inspirations, influenced by consideration 
of circumstances on the spur of the mo- 
ment, or possibly by the chapter of acci- 
dents. But he had resolved to embark 
on one of the Highland coasting steamers 
at Port Sligachan, simply because he liked 
the idea of a sea- voyage. 

The very day he settled that impromptu 
plan, a gentleman of sympathetic nature, 
though, as the Americans say, an entire 
stranger to him, came to a similar de- 
cision in the Isle of Skye. The Honor- 
able Wilfred Winstanley had all his life 
been addicted to impulses, though he 
nevertheless had made his way in the 
world very successfully. One night he 
had gone to bed in the state chamber of 
Castle Somerled in a less serene frame 
of mind than was usual with him. For 
the most part he was good-nature itself, 
as a man ought to be on whom fortune 
had smiled very steadily. His host's 
Lafitte had tasted sour; there had been 
no savor in the entries; he had been 
vexed to find himself ** doggish and snap- 
pish," as a worthy Quaker used to remark 
in his diary. Altogether, when he took 
his bedroom candle to go up-stairs he felt 
strangely out of sorts, and he went to bed 
to toss and tumble under the blankets. 
Towards the small hours his sensations 
gave shape to his suspicions, and he 
turned out of bed into the dawn to con- 
firm these. 

** Gout, by Jove ! I thought as much," 
was his rueful verdict, as he gazed on a 
swelling toe that blushed under his anx- 
ious examination. ** Gout, by Jove ! and 
I'll be bound Willis has brought no col* 
chicum. It*s true that I have not had an 
attack for a couple of years. Just like my 
luck," he added, with the fractious injus- 
tice of a spoiled child, **it's choosing to 
lay hold of me in this heaven-forsaken 
Patmos, where the doctors are sure to 
smell of spirits and peat smoke, and their 
drugs can't be worth the bottles they put 
them in. Well, if 1 am to be ill. Til be ill 
in Berkeley Square, — always supposing 
I don't break down in making a bolt for 


And when Willis appeared with his 



master's hot water, he received orders to 
make inquiries as to steamers, but to pack 
immediately io any case. 

** Should no steamer be expected to-day, 
you will go and bar^rain for a tug, or some- 
thing of that kind/' 

And Willis, who had been broken to 
passive obedience, and who had long be- 
fore ceased to be surprised at anything, if 
he shrugged his shoulders metaphorically, 
simply answered with a "Yes, sir." 

As it happened, a cargo steamer, carry- 
ing passengers when it could pick them 
up, had come the day before into the ad- 
jacent harbor, and having received prompt 
despatch from the company's agents, was 
prepared to weigh anchor in the forenoon. 
Lord Somerled, Mr. VVinstanley*s noble 
host, protested vehemently against his 
friend's departure. Mr. Winstanley was 
profuse of apologies, but inflexible. It 
was altogether for Lord Somerled's sake 
that he left. He had made a rule of never 
being laid up in a friend's house when he 
could help it, and it was a rule he had 
never hitherto departed from. 

** Nothing would tempt me to victimize 
jou, my dear fellow. It would be flying 
io the face of all my principles. I hope 
Vm unselfish before everything, and I 
know my duty to my neighbor better than 

So his lordship did what the valet did 
not venture on. He presumed on a long 
acquaintance so far as to shrug his shoul- 
ders openly, and ordered the carriage to 
drive Mr. Winstanley to the harbor. 

To do Mr. Winstanley bare justice, 
however precipitate his impulses, he acted 
upon them with rare determination. Even 
to himself he would have been loath to 
acknowledge that, " not to put too fine a 
point on it," he had made a fool- of him- 
self. Yet we will not undertake to say 
that be had not some searchings of heart, 
when he hobbled on his sounder foot 
across the greasy decks of the Cuchullin. 
We could almost aver that when he was 
assisted down the battered brass-bound 
steps of the dark companion, and had 
stambled into the gloom of his strong- 
smelling little cabin, he wafted a sigh of 
soft regret towards the comfortable quar- 
ters he had precipitately quitted. H he 
sofifered, however, like the impenitent 
cardinal, he " made no sign ; " and suffer 
be certainly did, in body if not in spirit. 
The shaking of a carriage is far from be- 
ing a sovereign specific for a sharp attack 
of gout that has quickly developed itself. 
]f we were to give a non-professional di- 
agnosis of his symptoms, we should say 


that he felt as if the roomy slipper he was 
wearing had suddenly become several 
sizes too small for him ; as if a cook had 
been scientifically scoring the ailing foot 
in the fashion in which you prepare a 
spatch-cocked chicken, subsequently rub- 
bing in the mustard and Worcester sauce, 
not by any means forgetting the cayenne; 
and as if a spark or two from the glowing 
kitchen fire had flown and lodged them- 
selves under the toe-nail. In such cir- 
cumstances the Stoic may make no sign, 
but his temper will not be of the sweetest. 

When his blinking eyes had accus- 
tomed themselves to the dimness, Win- 
stanley cast a disconsolate glance around 
him. The low-roofed cabin showed wear 
and tear, and the panels stood sorely in 
need of repainting. The table and the 
seats in the centre were fixtures, and it 
needed dexterous navigation to thread the 
narrow passage between them and the 
surrounding lockers and horsehair sofas ; 
while a man over the middle height, un- 
less he stooped his head, must infallibly 
bump it against the blackened beams 
above. But Mr. Winstanley, though he 
loved his luxuries, was an old* traveller ; 
he had been in queer places and seen 
strange things; nor did he expect in a 
Hebridean cattle-boat to find the comforts 
of a Cunard liner. Had it not been for 
that abominable gout, he would have en- 
joyed the novel experience rather than 
otherwise. And, the gout notwithstand- 
ing, he merely made a grimace when the 
shock-headed and courteous individual 
who officiated as steward, in answer to 
his inquiry as to an available berth, pointed 
to one of the tattered sofas. 

"Ye see, sir, we're no just that weel 
provided with state cabins," said the man 
apologetically, as if some half-dozen were 
already engaged, and they would have 
arranged to have one or two more had 
they expected his honor's arrival. 

"If only I have no companions in my 
misery," murmured Winstanley resigned- 
ly; and supporting himself on his valet's 
shoulder, he painfully regained the deck.. 
But even that very natural wish was not 
to be gratified. 

" I guess, stranger, I must have done 
you a mischief, and seems, judging from 
your limp when you came aboard, that you 
had been sorter crippled already." 

The apology, such as it was, came from 
a lank, wiry figure, in a tall stove-pipe hat, 
and a suit of go-to-meeting garments; and 
Winstanley, although he had been repeat- 
edly in America, detested Americans of a 
certain class. And assuredly an apology 



of some sort was due, since this particular 
citizen of the States had brouj^ht down 
his foot upon Mr. Winstanley's afflicted 
member, making that dignified gentleman 
pirouette on one leg, with his hand on his 
servant's shoulder as the pivot of the 
movement. Hobbling off in rage and 
pain, he did not care to prolong the con- 
versation ; but the ejaculation he uttered, 
when beyond earshot of his assailant, 
made a Scotch minister, similarly attired 
in black, turn up his eyes in silent protes- 
tation. It was seldom that Mr. Winstan- 
ley so far forgot himself. He hated the 
clergyman for that silent reproof, but he 
was still more annoyed with himself for 
having given cause for it. 

Ere he had forgiven himself or regained 
nis composure, the vessel was under way. 
She was a narrow, deep-waisted screw, 
indifferently manned, and apparently 
much overloaded. At least it struck our 
friend, who had been at sea in all manner 
of craft, that she was down by the head 
and thoroughly out of trim. She carried 
a load of sheep and black cattle forward, 
besides a score or two of Celts, who might 
be bound for the herring fishing; and the 
deck abaft the funnel was hampered with 
a miscellaneous pile of mixed goods, so 
that her few bands had little room to 
move about. ** I hope we may have fair 
weather," was his passing prayer; but his 
mind was chiefly preoccupied with his 
malady, as was only natural. The stamp 
of the American's heavy boot was still 
throbbing and thrilling through all his 
fevered pulses ; and as the green shores 
of the land-locked bay seemed to slip past 
the stationary steamer, he paid no sort of 
attention to the scenery. But as a sense 
of soothing succeeded to acute torments, 
a change came over the spirit of his 
dreams. The American's violent remedy 
had brought temporary relief: instead of 
being worse, he felt decidedly better. 
And in that he saw a direct interposition 
of the Providence which had consistently 
befriended him through his many wander- 
ings. He had prided himself on always 
making the best of mankind as he found 
them, and here was an opportunity of ris- 
ing to the occasion — of coming out 
strong, like Mr. Tapley under adverse 
circumstances. He would make the best 
of the circumstances, unpromising as 
they were, and show himself more than 
civil to the uncongenial companions of 
his solitude. An almost miraculous lull 
in his pains confirmed him in his manly 
resolutions. And when the tinkling of a 
cracked bell announced the serving of an 

early dinner, he almost felt equal to the 
occasion. In fact, having merely broken 
his fast upon tea and toast, and being a 
man of active habits, and by no means, 
generally speaking, a gouty subject, the 
cravings of nature began to assert them- 

He was pleased to find the cabin com- 
paratively well ventilated. The active 
Mr. Willis had persuaded the steward to 
open one or two of the bull's eyes and 
admit a current of air. Four gentlemen 
had already taken their places at a table 
seated for a dozen : there was his Ameri- 
can acquaintance opposite to the minis- 
ter; while the skipper, who occupied the 
place of honor at the top, was faced by a 
sheep-farmer from "misty Skye," bound 
on a pleasure jaunt to the western me* 
tropolis of Scotland. 

There is no nobler sight for gods or 
men than "a great man struggling with 
the storms of fate." Cato like, the Hon- 
orable Mr. Winstanley had screwed him- 
self up to a pitch of philosophy, where he 
w^as not to be lightly shaken. He scarcely 
flinched, so far as could be seen in the 
dusky twilight of the cabin, when the 
American welcomed him with the cordi- 
ality of an old acquaintance, whose 
friendly offices had given a claim on his 

" Wal, stranger," exclaimed that really 
good fellow, with a warmth that meant a 
hearty introduction to the company, ^- 
'* wal, stranger, here you are, all slicked 
up and smoothed down. Guess, when 
you limped aft with the broken balance of 
you, after I had most crushed off that 
gouty foot of yourn, the bristles were up 
along the back like a catamount. That 
was human natur', and I apologize. You 
remembered me of old Jeb Peabody and 
Judge Mason's bull. You want to hear 
about it, you say. Wal, Jeb was ferryman 
at Salem Flats, on the Chickabody River, 
and he kept a liquor bar, and a store for 
general rations to the back of that. All- 
tired deaf he was, ever since he had been 
hoisted by mistake, when the boys forgot 
him, over a biastin' charge in a quartz- 
mine down to Denver. He could take a 
power of drink could Jeb, but he was apt 
to get drowsy over it in a general way. 
Wal, one night he was sitting nodding be- 
hind his pipe in his shanty, when he hears 
somebody a-tapping at the door. * Come 
in,' says Jeb, still sleepy-like. The party 
on the wrong side of the shingles raps 
again. * Come in,' says Jeb again, 'or 
else, I guess, though it's well on in the 
I fall, you'll find it kinder warm when you 



do come.' The straDger outside seemed 
deaf like Jeb; *peared he was ^^ettin' riled 
with being kept a-waitin\ for soon Jeb 
could hear him stampin' and cussin\ 
*Wal,' remarks Jeb, with a sigh, *i£ I 
must get up to open I must ; but I guess, 
my friend, VW make you see stars — 
some,' and he reaches out his hand to his 
slip of hickory, — when all of a sudden 
the shingles cave in, and Judge Mason's 
ball is in Jeb Peabody's weskit. Jeb was 
a candid man, and as he said arterwards 
in mentioning the fact — * The way I 
shouted and slipped out o' the winder like 
a greased streak o' lightnin', afore the crit- 
tur was done prancin' around, was a cau- 
tion to iled snakes.' And that was you, 
stranger, as you hollered and made 
tracks ; and as for me, like the judge's 
bull, I guess I was too fur taken aback to 

No one seemed greatly to appreciate 
the American's apologue or apology, 
which, considering there was but an ounce 
or two of the pure metal to some tons of 
quartz, was not much to be wondered at. 
But Winstanley felt more in charity to- 
wards him than betore, since he saw that 
the transatlantic gentleman was well dis- 
posed to monopolize the talk, and that for 
himself he might play the part of listener. 
During dinner and afterwards, the voluble 
American sought to beguile the time with 
a fund of anecdote, of aphorism, and sage 
and moral reflection. Nevertheless, he 
did not have it all his own way by any 
means. The minister and the sheep- 
farmer had many subjects more or less in 
common — mammon, home missions, mar- 
kets, the clip of wool, iht onfrecuidance of 
the crofters, and the oppression of the 
landowners. As for the skipper, he sel- 
dom opened his mouth, except to stow 
away the very solid victuals, or swallow 
whiskey and water. On the whole, Win- 
stanley, not foreseeing what was to befall 
OQ the morrow, deemed him the most 
agreeable member of the party. 

The supper, which came off at nine, 
was more successful than the dinner. 
After devouring everything indigestible, 
from cold corned beet to crabs and Welsh 
rabbit, the society settled down to steady 
drinking. The American, to do him jus- 
tice, having taken a "cocktail or two" by 
way of digestive, stuck thenceforward to 
aerated water. But he talked nine to the 
dozen, as he chewed plugs of golden Vir- 
ginia iodefatigably, in deference 10 the 
scruples of his new English friend, who 
had strongly protested against smoking. 
Not that Mr. Winstanley disliked a cigar, 

but he objected to suffocation by rancid 

The minister, the sheep-farmer, and the 
skipper met on common ground, or rather 
on common spirits and water, over a bowl 
of punch that was brewed by the reverend 
gentleman, after the soundest traditions 
of the fathers of the Church. 

** The stuff you brew at the preachings," 
observed the hillman with a solemn wink, 
"or when you're seeking to come over the 
heritors for an augmentation, or an * eke ' 
to the manse." And worthy Dr. M'Tavish, 
knowing well what his friend meant, fully 
met his expectations. Winstanley, who 
sat sipping some weak brandy and water, 
soon sought a refuge on the deck. But a 
mist that was very much of a drizzle was 
settling down thickly, and Willis was al- 
most immediately at his elbow, like a 
warning conscience. For Willis was at- 
tached to his master, and detested the 
duty of acting as sick-nurse to an aggra- 
vating patient. 

" Excuse me, sir, but this mist is the 
worst thing in the world for you. We 
should say it had set in for settled wet in 
the south. Believe me, you had much 
better go below." 

" But I am half suffocated already, Wil- 
lis, and those good gentlemen seem to 
have no notion of going to bed." 

"Better be half smothered or half 
stunned, sir, than suffer pain for weeks 
to come," answered Willis sententiously. 
"The one will be soon over; but who 
can tell the end of the other?" 

So his master yielded to reason, and 
descended again to the Inferno, where his 
worst anticipations were fully realized. If 
the practice of patience -be the discipline 
of lite, Winstanley should have passed a 
profitable night. 

When he crept on to the deck in the 
morning, he felt a doubly injured man. In 
his sense of intense feverishness it seemed 
as if he were suffering vicariously for the 
indulgences of his shipmates — as if he 
had swallowed the contents of the punch- 
bowls, while they had been simply looking 
on. But he revived in the freshness of 
the morning air, as he feasted his eyes 
on a magnificent Highland panorama. 
The CuchuUin was lying at anciior in the 
land-locked roadstead of Loch Rona. A 
thick undergrowth of dwarf oaks and al- 
ders, interlacing their bougiis in ^reat 
beds of bracken, came literally down to 
the beach of shingle; haifa-dozen streams 
were descending so many picturesque 
glens, breaking here and there over tiny 
waterfalls ; while huge hills, with slopes 



of the softest green, and great shoulders 
draped in purple heather, were backed up 
by the splintered and weather-worn peaks 
that were partially veiled in the swirl of a 
drifting cloudland. In the foreground, 
near a little "change-house" {Angltci, 
public-house) and a cluster of hovels, was 
a snug shooting-box, with its garden 
washed by the sea waves, where the luxu- 
riance of the shrubs and the flower-beds 
glorified the warmth of the Gulf stream. 

"The boat will be going ashore, sir, 
after breakfast, should you think well of 
that," said the shock-headed steward very 
civilly; and Winstanley thanked him as 
civilly and declined, although, to a man in 
his situation, the proposal sounded seduc- 
tively. He would have liked nothing bet- 
ter than a temporary escape from his 
floating purgatory ; but he was reconciled 
to his fate in remaining on board, when 
the sprightly American came up with his 

** I calculate, colonel, by the way you're 
sniffing the mountain air, you feel as fresh 
this morning as a four year-old mustang. 
And if youVe good for a run ashore, I'll 
come along and kinder take care o' you. 
No? You won't? Wal, then, if you like 
a hobble better, you're welcome to try 
one. Them rocks up there may be al- 
mighty grand, but I'd sooner spekilate on 
their tallness any day than climb them." 

The morning passed slowly enough 
while the Cuchullin was leisurely landing 
cargo. The captain smoked and sipped 
his whiskey and water, leaving the super- 
intendence of operations to his mate. 
Winstanley, after sundry unsuccessful at- 
tempts to kill time, gave himself over to 
reflections that were exceedingly unpleas- 
ant. He was condemned to two other 
days and nights of continement in his pres- 
ent society before being landed at a Chris- 
tian port in the Clyde. He made up his 
mind to the inevitable, in the spirit of an 
early martyr. 

And the inevitable promised to be worse 
than he imagined. As the day went on, 
in the bay, sheltered on three sides, 
scarcely a breath of air was stirring. But 
nevertheless a growing ground-swell came 
rolling round the bold headland to the 
westward. The sky had clouded over; 
there was oppression in the air; the 
leaden-colored rollers seemed sullenly 
smoothed down by oil ; and the mate made 
the remark that the glass was tumbling. 

** There has been wild weather in the 
Atlantic — there can be no doubt of that ; 
and the question is, whether we will not 
have a storm on the coast here." 

As for the captain, casting all his cares 
upon Providence, he smoked and drank 
on imperturbably. 

The passengers had come on board ; 
the Cuchullin had got up her steam, and 
was slewing her head round to the sea- 
channel, when the mate sang out to slacken 
speed. A boat was seen putting out from 
the shore, and a signal flag was being 
waved in front of the public-house. 

"Now who may that be?" muttered 
Winstanley to himself. " It never rains 
but it pours, and here comes another ruf- 
fian to prove the possible aggravation of 
the least tolerable calamities." 

For a man was seated in the stern- 
sheets as the boatmen strained to the 

Winstanley prided himself on his quick 
perceptions, and it struck him at once that 
the new-comer was a gentleman. Then 
the stranger's luggage was presumptive 
evidence in that direction, since it con- 
sisted of a couple of neat portmanteaus, 
a gun-case, and a hand-bag in Russian 
leather. The handbag bore the golden 
initial letters "J. V."; and the gun-case, 
as the shrewd reader may have supposed, 
was superscribed at length as belonging 
to John Venables, Esq. 

Jack was not gouty — far from it. On 
the contrary, he was in the highest health 
and spirits ; and he swung himself up the 
side ladder with the grace of a young 
Antinous. His first words were a polite 
apology to the captain for delaying him, 
which the captain acknowledged by in- 
articulate mutterings and a stare from his 
whiskey-sodden eyes. 

As for Winstanley, he was from the 
first attracted to the stranger. Here, ac- 
cording to outward appearances, was a 
man with whom he might possibly have 
common ideas and sympathies. So the 
pair made friends over the dinner table, 
and, had it not been for the interruptions 
of the irrepressible Yankee, would practi- 
cally have monopolized the conversation. 
For the minister was overawed by con- 
sciousness of ignorance of the subjects 
the others discussed in a kind of easy 
freemasonry; and the sheep-farmer, like 
naturally modest men, was always in ex- 
tremes, and either painfully shy or bril- 
liantly audacious. 

It was just as well for Mr. Winstanley 
that he had found a companion he fan- 
cied, for it seemed likely that the voyage 
mi>;ht be indefinitely prolonged. The 
night had settled down in a fog, denser 
and damper than that of the previous 
one ; and ten hours after they started the 



Steamer was going half-speed over a heavy 
ground swell in impenetrable darkness. 
Slowing the engines had been the result 
of a compromise, when the skipper in a 
moment of drunken depression had lent 
an ear to the warnings of his inexpe- 
rienced mate. But when the youth, in 
iocreasiog uneasiness, urged lying off al- 
together till day should dawn, his superior 
had lost temper and decided to go boldly 

** It's but kittle steering here," the mate 
bad objected; **and with all that corru- 
gated iron in the hold we can hardly trust 
altogether to the compasses. If we were 
among the rocks and reefs off the Point 
of Achnahutlichan now " 

"And what if we were, my man?" re- 
toraed his commander, with drunken dig- 
nity. "Man and boy, I've been afloat for 
thirty years, and I ought to know every 
one of the reefs between Cape Wrath and 
the Moil of Cantyre." 

They were bending over a chart spread 
on the cabin table, and the little company 
of passengers was grouped around them. 

"There's one of the reefs, then, I cal- 
culate," ejaculated the American drily, 
and with infinite promptitude. 

For as the captain spoke there was a 
shock and a long shivering, a rending of 
timber, and a tremulous rasping that 
had run along the ship's keel like electric- 
ity, communicating with the passengers 
through their shaking limbs, and shooting 
a thrill to each nerve and fibre; while 
simultaneously rose shrill cries and wild 
shouts from the decks. Then came an- 
other shock, like the despairing struggle 
of a stranded whale, and a duller sound of 
the splintering of timbers. 



WiNSTANLEY forgot his gout as the 
captain was suddenly sobered. There 
was a rush for the deck in that first alarm, 
as of men who preferred to perish in the 
open, rather than to be drowned below 
decks like rats and cockroaches. Once 
on the deck there was little to be seen, 
but a great deal to be heard. The lan- 
tern gave but a fitful light, throwing faint 
reflections on the grey wreaths* of watery 
vapor. But out of the darkness, that was 
to be felt rather than seen, came appalling 
evidences of a general panic. The High- 
land forecastle passengers, more accus- 
tomed to theJr bills than to the sea, had 
lost their beads, and were bellowing and 
"rooting " like the cattle. And the cattle, 

where they had not broken from the fast- 
enings, had been jumbled together in 
prostrate heaps, and were plunging madly 
in the efforts to regain their legs. The 
more placidly minded sheep were bleating 
piteously; the ship was groaning, though 
it could not roll, in response to the surf 
that was dashing against its sides; and 
the funnel was belching forth volumes of 
steam and flaming showers of sparks, for 
something had gone wrong with the fires 
or the machinery. 

In the darkness and the turmoil, so far 
as could be judged, there were only four 
men who had kept their heads. These 
were the young mate, the shock-headed 
steward, the cool American, and Mr. Jack 
Venables. As for Mr. Winstanley, he 
was in mortal alarm, though he had too 
much self-respect to show it; and, rather 
to give himself time to calm down than 
for any better reason, he addressed a re- 
mark to Mr. Venables, who happened to 
be close by his side, and was busy strip- 
ping off coat and boots. 

" It's ail over with us, I suppose." 

But Jack's courage was of the kind that 
is highest in emergencies, and his spirits 
rose buoyantly to the excitement of dan- 

" Not if I know it, sir. We may all get 
away in the boats; and if not, I mean to 
try to save myself by swimming. The 
steamer is upon rocks, and one may find 
a footing on them, till some passing ves- 
sel comes to take us off." 

Thus having spoken on the spur of the 
moment, the selfishness of his speech 
struck him. " I wish this crippled old 
gentleman had not been here," — so, we 
may suppose, ran the current of his 
thoughts. " But as he is here, I am bound 
to see him through it, worse luck." And 
then he added, "If you keep by me, or 
rather, stay by the companion here, 1 
shall come back before I leave, and will 
gladly give you a helping hand." 

Hardly even when talking to Mr. Mo- 
ray, had Jack ever invested words to bet- 
ter purpose. And indeed, in this case, 
Winstanley had reason to be doubly grate- 
ful. Not only did the calmness of the 
young stranger help him to regain his 
self-possession, but it was a promise of 
self-sacritice which he felt assured would 
be redeemed. So whether his feelings 
were too much for him or not, he merely 
squeezed the young gentleman's hand by 
way of answer. 

While we have been lingering over this 
conversation apart between the only two 
people in whom we are greatly interested, 



incidents were being fast crowded into 
seconds. Had it been daylight, one might 
have looked on at a veritable panic. The 
Celts in the steerage had sufficiently 
recovered from their stupor to be seri- 
ously alarmed. They had animal courage 
enough, but it was ill adapted to unfamil- 
iar circumstances. They made a rush at 
the boats, and carried them by storm. 
Their frenzied impetuosity knocked a hole 
in the bottom of one, which happened to 
be loaded with coils of wire fencing. As 
for the other, by the aid of the seamen it 
was lowered into the water tant bien que 
maL But that boat was to the windward 
side of the ship, and the surf was strong, 
and the gear slightly fouled at one end. 
Naturally the boat upset under a cascade 
of human beings, most of them weighing 
considerably over fourteen stone; and 
then it became a case of **save who can," 
for no one had a thought to bestow upon 
his neiglibors. Two or three who fell 
struggling in the deeper water, were swept 
to sea or under the ship's counter, and 
were seen no more. The rest, to their 
surprise and pleasure, regained their legs, 
and were either washed up against the 
swamped boat and the swinging tackle, 
or, clutching wildly at each other, their 
feet struck on the rocks, up which they 
scrambled through the shoaling water, till, 
clinging to the slippery seaweed like lim- 
pets, they had time for recollection and a 
long breath. Then one or two, with more 
presence of mind than the others, shouted 
out that there was firm footing under the 
ship*s bows ; and when the good news 
had slowly circulated on board, relief from 
the apprehension of immediate danger 
brought about a wonderiul reaction. Their 
safety need only be a question of time, 
and the indolent side of the excitable 
Highlanders turned upwards again. 

And with a falling ground-swell and 
calm weather they mi«;ht have been well 
contented to wait indeAniteiy. But as the 
first breaking of the dawn began to streak 
the eastern sky, there came an ominous 
sighing and whistling through the shrouds 
and the funnel-stays, which caused the 
mate and the shock-headed steward to 
prick their ears and exchange significant 
glances. The wind was getting up, as 
the glass had prognosticated a gale; and 
when the waves rose with the wind, the 
Cuchullin would probably go to pieces. 
Nor, as the breaking oi the day made 
objects visible, was the sight of the reef 
on which they were hard and fast by any 
means reassuring. Low and rugged, and 
covered with slimy brown and green sea- 

weed, it looked very like the slippery back 
of the fabulous kraken, and nearly as 
likely to be submerged at any moment. 
Assuredly it was sunk far out of sight in 
spring tides; probably the seas washed 
over it in such a gale as was coming on. 

The captain, although comparatively 
sobered by the catastrophe, was dazed, 
and disposed to take gloomy views, as he 
well might be, considering that under the 
most favorable circumstances his certifi- 
cate was sure to be suspended by the 
Board of Trade. So he declared that as 
the vessel might break up at any moment, 
the passengers had better take refuge on 
the reef, which might be trusted not to go 
to pieces, though it was quite on the cards 
that it might be swamped. 

Had an unimaginative artist sought ma- 
terials for the illustration of ** Robinson 
Crusoe," assuredly he might have found 
them in the scene on the reef, which was 
locally known as the "Kittiwake's neb." 
The steerage passengers began by saving 
their personal property, and piled bags 
and blankets and wooden ** kists " about 
them. Then, for sheer want of occupa- 
tion, and by the offer of free rations of 
**Tallisker,*' they were persuaded by the 
mate and the steward to unload the live 
cargo. We can't say that humanity had 
much to do with it. So half-wild cattle 
that had the strength and suppleness of 
the famous Chillingham herd, were per- 
suaded to leap from the deck into the 
water. The sheep followed their leaders, 
when one or two had been caught up and 
pitched over bodily. And then there was 
a scene, such as might have been wit- 
nessed when the ark brought up, after its 
seven months' cruise, on Mount Ararat. 
The cattle crowded together, as is their 
custom, with stooping heads and staring 
coats, playfully goring each other in the 
ribs with their tremendous horns, till the 
melancholy ocean resounded with their 
bellowing. The sheep, that jostled up 
against the oxen, although confining then> 
selves to plaintive protests against their 
bad luck, were scarcely in the sum total less 
vociferous. We dare say the rats left the 
stranded ship, though, had they foreseen 
the fate that must befall them, they would 
have stuck by her so long as she floated. 
But the old cabin cat, which had slipped 
over the side when his betters set him the 
example, was perhaps more to be felt for 
than any person. He lowered himself 
over the side, from a natural instinct of 
self-preservation ; but really he cared very 
little what became of him. He was too 
miserable, as he picked his way among 


pools of sea-water, and set down his feet 
giDfrtrly on rocks that were slimy with 
trailiDj; seaweed. His priDciples aad his 
iostiocts denied him the resource of sui- 
cide — for we believe that, among all the 
memorabilia of remarkable cats, no one 
instance has been recorded of an animal 
that drowned itself. But he strolled reck- 
lessly under the very noses of collies who, 
in ordinary circumstances, would have 
made but a couple of mouthfuls of him. 
As it was, in the presence of a common 
danger, they saw him pass with an indif- 
ference as appalling as his own, to anyone 
who had leisure to remark the phenome- 
non. And so the desponding Thomas 
went OD, till he ran up against a gentle- 
man seated in a chair, when the domestic 
instincts asserted themselves, the more 
decidedly for the delightful surprise. He 
rubbed his sides against an upturned pair 
of trousers; he made the wearer wince by 
smoothing his whiskers against a muffled 
foot; and then he gave a flying leap out 
of the damp, arching his back and purring 
pleasantly against a woollen waistcoat. 

In fact it had been a pretty though a 
pathetic sight to see Mr. Venables pilot- 
ing Mr. Winstanley to the highest point 
of the reef, and there depositing him on 
one of the two or three cane-bottomed 
chairs to be found on board the Cuchullin. 
Willis, who was still amenable to orders, 
though he had lost all power of initiation, 
followed, carrying the dressing-case that 
was placed under his master's feet. And 
there sat the Honorable Wilfred Win- 
stanley, gathering the skirts of a trailing 
ulster round his legs, more painfully sen- 
sible than ever of his signal folly in tiying 
so hastily from his comfortable quarters 
at Somerled. But if he had a feeling 
stronger than that of self-reproach, it was 
of gratitude to the cheery young fellow 
who had done so much for him. Already 
Winstanley had asked his name, and had 
been duly informed. To say nothing of 
Jack's sanguine spirit being contagious, 
it was difficult to seem depressed when 
the youth was near. He would have sat 
self-rebuked while Mr. Venables was qui- 
etly conversing, as if they had come to- 
gether in a club smoking-room In Pall 
Mall. We will not undertake to say that 
there was not some swagger about Mr. 
Venables, but are content merely to record 
bow he behaved. 

^ I should prefer a cigarette, as I have 
gone without breakfast. But * needs must 
be,' — you know the proverb, sir; so, by 
your leave, though I think I heard them 
say you objected to smoking, I shall light 


a pipe. If I keep well to leeward, perhaps 
you won't mind.'* 

But after a few whiffs of the pipe, a 
fresh idea seemed to strike him. 

**What a picturesque sight it is, and 
what comical groups of figures these are 
in the foreground! Gray's odes come 
back to the memory. Confusion, frigiit, 
ay, and famine too, and ever so many 
more realistic conceptions of the passions. 
And what a bit that is, i la M. Gudin at 
the Luxembourg, for example, where the 
waves are breaking against the sides of 
the old ship, with the seaweed streaming 
on the curl of the surf, and boxes and 
trunks bobbing about among the break- 
ers ! " 

And from another of the numerous 
pockets in his shooting-jacket he produced 
something between a memorandum-book 
and a sketch-book, and, smiling, proceeded 
to draw. Winstanley looked at him curi- 
ously. His hand was steady and his eye 
was clear, and he handled the pencil for 
all the world as if he had been sitting on 
a camp-stool in some sequestered glen, 
with an immediate prospect of mufHns 
and coffee. Jack marked the glance, and 
answered it in about five minutes, by 
carelessly passing his sketch-book to 

** Admirable, sir, admirable ! " was that 
gentleman's verdict; for in fact his young 
companion, by' some sharp and bold 
touches, had given a very fair idea of 
water in motion; while the rendering of 
the more prominent figures in the fore- 
ground was a clever blending of the gro- 
tesque with the veracious. And though 
he immediately dismissed the matter from 
his mind, the memory of it afterwards did 
Jack good service. 

Indeed more serious considerations 
were soon to preoccupy him. A business 
of the kind must be slow at best, whether 
to those who -figure in it or to those who 
read about it ; so we spare our readers 
many of the details. But with the rising 
tide, driven over the reef by the winds, 
the water at every seventh wave or so 
actually washed over Winstanley's boot 
and slipper; and although it became 
pretty plain that no one need be actually 
drowned, it seemed probable that his 
constitution might be shattered for life. 
He was so lost in a labyrinth of gloomy 
thoughts, that he was indifferent even to 
the presence of the irrepressible Ameri- 
can, who opined that he would rather run 
the chances of being sky-rocketed from 
high-pressure "ingines" among the snags 
of the Mississippi, than be cast adrift on 



ao empty stomach in that herriog-pool, 
when a man should be turning his atten- 
tion to mutton chops and ham and eg^s. 

Nothing could be more welcome, then, 
than the sight of the Clansman, steaming 
southward on the way to Oban. She an- 
swered the signals of distress, and bore 
down to the assistance of the wreck. The 
embarkation was a matter of time, and of 
some little inconvenience as well; but the 
reef acted as a kind of breakwater against 
the freshening gale, and the castaways 
were hospitably welcomed into snug quar- 
ters, where they had an opportunity of 
changing their damp garments. 

*' I seem to have known you from your 
boyhood," said Winstanley very warmly 
to his young acquaintance. ** You have 
stood by me in a way I shall never forget ; 
and as you were ready to do me one ines- 
timable service in the way of risking your 
life, I mean to ask you to do me another. 
It's the way of the world, you know, so 
you need not be surprised." 

** Very willingly," answered Jack, with 
graceful readiness — not the less readily, 
no doubt, that he felt instinctively that 
the favor to be asked was to pave the way 
to some return for his generous devotion. 

** Well, I fancy I may take it for granted 
that your time is at your disposal, other- 
wise you would hardly have shipped for 
a cruise in that miserable old tub. 1 
mean to land at Oban, where I fear I may 
have to lay up and take medical advice. 
If you could bestow a day or two on a 
fretful invalid, I should feel, if possible, 
more grateful than I do at present." And 
he threw as much significance into his 
words as was compatible with considera- 
tion for a gentleman's feelings. 

And as we know something of Mr. Ven- 
ables's views and nature — and as he 
made it a golden rule never to miss a 
chance — we need hardly add that he 
jumped at the invitation with a cordiality 
which greatly flattered his senior. 

From Macmillan*s Masazine. 


It was a clear, mild spring evening in 
the latter part of the month designated in 
almanacs as October, but in nature's 
annuary the April of this inverted antarc- 
tic world, when the Brazilian mail steamer 
Rio Apa was making her way cautiously 
up against the shallow and turbid waters 
of the River Plate, bound with cargo and 

a full complement of passengers, mostly 
Brazilians, some Argentines or Uruguay- 
ans, a few Germans — where are not Ger- 
mans to be met now? — and myself as a 
solitary specimen of the British sub-vari- 
ety, from Montevideo to Asuncion, capital 
of Paraguay, and, indeed, further north 
yet, to the Brazilian capital of Mata* 
Grosso ; but with that ultimate destina- 
tion the present narrative has no con- 
cern. Viewed from anywhere the prospect 
of Montevideo is a lovely one, but most 
so from the sea. However ill-advised the 
old Spaniards may generally have showo 
themselves in their selection of sites for 
towns or seaports in South America, they, 
or their great captain, Don Bruno Mau- 
ricio de Zabala, chose well, could not, in- 
deed, have chosen better, when, in 1726, 
they laid, after two centuries of inexplica- 
ble neglect, the first foundations of Mon- 
tevideo. As a town it is perfect; as a 
harbor nearly so. With the lofty conical 
hill and the adjoining high lands of the 
cerro on the west, and the bold jutting 
promontory — itself a ridge of no incon- 
siderable elevation — on which the bulk 
of the town is built, to the east, the noble 
semicircular bay, deeply recessed in the 
rising grounds on the north, is well shel- 
tered from every wind and sea, the south 
and the southwest — this last, unluckily, 
the worst **of a* the airts," being none 
other than the dreaded pampero^ or 
pampas wind of these regions — except- 
ed ; at least until the long-projected break- 
water, which is to keep out this enemy 
also, be constructed. But pamperos, like 
most other ills of this best of all possible 
worlds, are exceptions, and for most days 
of the year few harbors a£Eord a safer or 
a more commodious anchorage than Mon- 
tevideo; while landward a prettier sight 
than that presented by the white houses of 
the smokeless town, covering the entire 
eastern promontory down to the water's 
edge on either side, intermixed with large 
warehouses, public buildings, and thea- 
tres, and crowned by the conspicuous 
dome and towers of the massive and, ^/ir# 
Captain Burton, fairly well-proportioned 
cathedral, would be hard to find anywhere 
else. Beyond, and all round the curve of 
the bay, countless villas of Hispano-Ital- 
ian construction, one-storied the majority, 
and recalling in general form and arrange- 
ment the Baian or Pompeian pleasure 
residences of the Augustan age, but not 
unfrequently distinguished by lofty mira" 
dores^ or look-outs, gleam many-colored 
from between thickly planted orchards 
and gardens, in which the orange-tree, the 


lemoo, the acacia, the peach, the fig, the 
cherry-tree, the medlar, the v'lDe, blend 
with the Australian eucalyptus, the bam- 
boo, the banana, the palm, and other im- 
ported growths of the outer world, and 
shelter a perennial profusion of lovely 
flowers, and pre-eminently of luxuriant 
roses, worthy of the gardens of ancient 
Paestum and modern Damascus or Sa- 
lerno. Shipping of every calibre and flag, 
steam and sail, make an apt foreground to 
the prosperous life implied by the land- 
ward prospect ; and a bright sky, stainless 
sunlight, and pure, healthful air, supply 
those conditions of enjoyment so essen- 
tial, yet so often wanting, one or all, from 
the oebulous seaside of northern Europe, 
or the treacherous beauty of equatorial 

But Montevideo and the Banda Orien- 
tal, to give the vigorous little republic of 
which it is the capital its praedelict name, 
must not detain us now. Already the 
iDterveoing mass of the cerro has hid 
them from our view, and we are far out 
00 the monotonous waters of the sealike 
Plate estuary. Night sets in calm and 
clear; and I look for the fourfold stars, 
first visioned to the Florentine seer, when 

Coder pareva M ciel di lor fiamelle. 

O settentrional vedovo site, 
Poichi private se* di mirar quelle ! 

But the Cross, partly veiled, is just skirt- 
ing the southern horizon, and will not 
be visible in its full beauty till near 
midoight; so that those strange, un- 
canny-looking nebulae, known, I believe, 
to British seafaring vulgarity as the ** coal- 
sacks," but more truly resembling, if any- 
thing, gigantic glow-worms, alone denote, 
by their proximity, the starless pole of 
the austral heavens. Truly, in more 
senses than one, a pole-star is yet to seek 
io the southern hemisphere, west or east 
~a fixed fulcrum, a central idea, a con- 
trolling and co-ordinating force. Yet the 
slow precession of the equinoxes may in 
time supply it to the courses of the con- 
cave above ; but who or what shall give it 
to the seething, ever-restless convex be- 
low? South America has her Bucolics, nor 
least the First; but the Fourth Eclogue 
is wanting from among the chaunted lays 
of Maotin Fierro and his peers. Does it 
bide a future date? Let us be content 
with the present ; and trust, but not ** fee- 
bly," the ** larger hope.*' 

And now, after ten hours, or there- 
abouts, of upward course, morning dawns 
for us on the world-famed New York of 
South America, the memorial and honor 


of Don Juan de Garay — the residence for 
more than two centuries of Spanish vice- 
royalty, and now the political and, to a 
great extent, commercial capital of that 
southern reflex of the northern Union, the 
vast Argentine Confederation, the city of 
Buenos Ayres. I remember how an Irish 
mate, when questioned on board a China- 
bound steamer, on which I happened to 
be a passenger, as to what was the first 
land we should sight of the Chinese coast, 
answering — and he could not have an- 
swered more appositely — •* Faith! the 
first land ye will sight is a junk ! '' Were 
he now replying to a similar inquiry on 
board the Rio Apa, he might not less 
aptly say, ** Faith 1 the first ye will see 
of Buenos Ayres is that ye will not see it 
at all 1 " So low is the coast, so great the 
distance from shore at which the shallow- 
ness of the river waters compels us to 
anchor, that a long, low line of confused 
buildings, and behind them the summits, 
no more, of cupolas, turrets, and towers, 
seen at intervals over the warehouse 
fronts along the edge, is all Buenos Ayres 
presents to our eyes on first beholding. 
The view, or non-view, of Venice herself 
when approached by rail from Padua is 
not more unsatisfactory. 1 long to land, 
and resolve the illusion in the opposite 
sense to that by which earth's illusions 
generally are dispelled, by finding, as I 
know I shall, the reality of the Argentine 
capital better than its introductory show. 
But the earliness of the hour, and the 
shortness of the time allotted for stay, do 
not for this occasion permit a nearer ac- 
quaintance with the most populous, the 
wealthiest, and in many or most ways the 
most important city of republican South 
America. And, in fact, what knowledge 
worth the having could be acquired by an 
hour of hurried driving through square 
and street? So I resign myself to cir- 
cumstances, and defer the accomplishment 
of my desires till the promised opportu- 
nity of the return voyage; though the 
courtesy of the Argentine capitan del 
Puerto or harbor-master, has hastened to 
place at my disposal the means of con- 
venient landing, moved thereto by the 
sight of the distinctive flag that notifies 
the presence of a British official — rank 
and name, of course, unknown, nor to my 
readers worth the knowing — on board 
the Rio Apa. It is a courtesy which will 
be repeated, with scarce even a casual 
exception, at every Argentine or Para- 
guayan river station we halt at during the 
seven days of up-stream voyage yet before 



There exists widely diffused in the Old 
World, nor least in England, ao opinion, 
the origin of which, correctly estimated or 
otherwise, is not perhaps far to seek, that 
a distinct want or even refusal of every- 
day courtesy, an ostentatious '* I am as 
good as you, and better," bearing, a disre- 
gard of the social claims, or what are held 
to be such, of rank, office, station, age, 
and the like, are the habitual characteris- 
tics of the citizens of non-monarchical 
States ; that, e.g.^ a republican boatman is 
more rudely extortionate, a republican por- 
ter more importunately aggressive, a re- 
publican official more neglectful of polite- 
ness than their counterparts elsewhere; 
and so on to the end of the chapter. How 
far this may really be the case in some 
republics, the United States for instance, 
I cannot say, never having had the for- 
tune to visit them, nor trusting much to 
" Notes " where accounts vary so widely. 
Thus much I can say, that, in my own lim- 
ited experience of men and things, when 
a traveller loudly and habitually complains 
of incivility met with on his wanderings, 
the probability is that the traveller himself 
has been, at the least, deficient in courtesy 
towards those he has come across. In 
republican South America my own witness 
in these regards is, so far as it goes, of 
the most favorable kind. Certainly I had 
much sooner, if desirous of obliging civ- 
ility, have to do with an Uruguayan or 
Argentine, not boatman or porter merely, 
but policeman, official, or any chance ac- 
quaintance whatever, low or high, than 
with his like in many a European land 
that I could, but will not name. 

Again we are on our up-stream way, but 
now obliquely crossing over towards the 
north side of the mighty estuary, till what 
seems at first sight a continuous shore-line 
of swamp and brushwood, but what is in 
reality an aggregate of island banks, only 
just raised above the water-level, and cov- 
ered with scrub, stretches across our path. 
These islands are, in fact, the secular 
bar at the mouth of the Parana River, 
before it broadens into the wider Plate. 
We shape our course to the right, where, 
at a little distance from the mainland shore 
of Uruguay — here a continuous succes- 
sion of undulating downs, grazing-ground 
the most — the little granite island-rock, 
known, like Cape Palinurus of Virgilian 
fame, by the name of a pilot, Martin Gar- 
cia, guards the only available entry from 
Rio de la Plata and the sea, to the all- 
important navigation of the Parana and 
Uruguay rivers. I tself geographically, no 
less than geologically, a fragment of Uru- 

' guay, it belongs territorially to the Argen« 
tine Confederation by right of — well — 
the right of the stronger; a right too 
generally admitted for dispute or appeal. 
The channel on either side of it, deep 
enough for all mercantile navigation, is 
sufficiently commanded by the guns and 
forts of the place to make a hostile pas* 
sage no easy matter. 

As we leave Martin Garcia behind us, 
a broad, wedge-like streak of darker color, 
driven far into the muddy waters of the 
Plata, from its left or eastern bank, tells 
where the Uruguay, itself a mighty stream, 
merges in the great estuary, and marks 
the limit between the Argentine Confed- 
eration, between whose lands more than 
eight hundred miles of river navigation lie 
before us, and the Banda Oriental, or east 
shore, of which we now take our definite 
leave. Soon we have entered the Guazu, 
or great passage, one of the many that 
thread, between shoal and island, the Pa- 
rana delta, and are by nightfall on the 
main river, here often whole miles io 
width ; though its real breadth can rarely 
be taken in by the eye, partly owing to the 
general lowness of its reed/ banks, partly 
to the countless islands, which, for its en- 
tire course, line at brief intervals now one 
shore, now the other. They, and the 
shores too, often disappear for weeks to- 
gether during the yearly floods, and, thus 
veiled, add not a little to the difficulties 
and dangers of.the route. At present the 
water is at its lowest; but even now the 
stream is rapid and strong; its color is 
turbid yellow ; its surface often specked 
with masses of tangled weed and floating 
drift-wood from forests yet far away. 

For five days more we journey up the 
Parana; passing, and occasionally stop- 
ping for cargo or passengers at many 
places of South American note — each 
one the outcome of some special activity 
or enterprise proper to the young and 
vigorous Confederation, between whose 
provinces the river flows. And first, Ro- 
sario, the city capital, if fact fill up the 
outlines of forecast, of the Argentine com- 
mercial future; and already the principal 
focus and dividing point of the widest- 
spread railroad system existent south of 
the Isthmus of Panama. Next we salute 
the memory of the able but ill-fated Ur- 
quiza, deliverer of his country from the 
tyrant Rosas, to fall himself a victim to 
treachery base as any imbedded in the ice 
of Dante's Tolommea ; as we sight the 
city of Parana, conspicuous by the ambi- 
tious dimensions of its public buildings, 
and the nine-years' memory of its dignity, 



as Urquiza's choice^as capital of the entire 
Argentine Confederation. Further up 
Bella Vista, or Fair Prospect, shines out 
on us worthy of its name, where its white 
boases crown the high white cliffs that 
overlook the mighty river ; and many 
other are the places of provincial or even 
national note, till we reach the confluents 
or Corrientes of the Argentine-Paraguayan 
frontier. But it may, indeed must, be 
here enough for us to note that during 
these nine hundred miles of up-stream 
voyage, south to north, the scenery of 
either bank, while remaining essentially 
the same in its main geographical features 
all the way, is yet gradually modified by 
the progressive approach to the tropics 
into ever-increasing beauty and interest. 
The eastern length of shore, along the 
fertile provinces of £ntre-Rios and Cor- 
rientes, gently rising from the river level 
into a succession of green uplands, stud- 
ded with tree clumps, and brightened by 
white groups of cottages and farmhouses, 
with a tall church tower here and there, 
passes by degrees from pasture land into 
agriculture, fields of maize, orange-groves, 
tobacco plantations, and even sugarcane ; 
a landscape which, allowance made for 
brighter color and glossier vegetation, not 
without dwarf palms and Japanese-looking 
bamboo clusters here and there, often 
reminded me in its general, and even in 
its detailed, features of the noble back- 
grounds painted by Rubens, of which an 
example may be seen in the ** Judgment 
of Paris" in our own National Gallery. 
There is something Flemish, almost En- 
glish, in their fertile repose; but here 
the scale is grander. In this southern 
Mesopotamia — as Entre-Rios may be lit- 
erally translated — nature has bestowed 
without stint whatever goes to make up 
those two solid and enduring bases of 
oational prosperity — agriculture and pas- 
ture; the third foundation, indicated by 
our Laureate in his exquisite landscape 
scene, " Ancient Peace," is waiting here 
as yet. A few years, indeed, of compara- 
tive security and quiet have already done 
much, as the glimpses of cattle-stocked 
meadows, and the dark green patches of 
Indian corn show us, as our steamer rap- 
idly glides past the gully-indented banks ; 
but the peaceful years that have given 
these good things are, as yet, of recent 
date ; a very different condition of tumult, 
insecurity, and not infrequent war pre- 
vailed here at a very short distance back 
from the present epoch. These evils are 
past, yet not so wholly as absolutely to 
bar the danger of their possible renewal, 

or to grant the desirable immunity from 
the agitations and vicissitudes consequent 
on the frequent and abrupt political 
changes of Buenos Ayres itself — commu- 
nicated thence like earthquake waves to 
the furthest provinces of the Confedera- 
tion. Still, enough advance on the path 
of law and order has been made to give 
reasonable assurance that the days of 
Oribe and Rosas, of gaucho leaders, and 
partisan plunders are, year by year — as 
the settled population of the land increases 
steadily in numbers, wealth, and strength 

— le?s, and ever less, likely to recur; 
while the tale of those who have a vested 
interest in the tranquillity of the country 
continues to grow, and with it grows the 
best probability and pledge of that tran- 
quillity itself. Meanwhile, many detail 
inventions, some of them undoubted im- 
provements of recent introduction, such 
as the increased use of machinery on the 
farms, the network of strong wire fences, 
now spread over the face of the pasture 
land; the extension of railway lines, and 
whatever other appliances tend to the 
facilitation of orderly communication, to 
the safeguarding of property, and to the 
substitution of methodized labor for the 
once over-numerous troops of half-wild 
horsemen and cattle-drivers — ready allies 
in the cause of riot and plunder — ail lead 
up to the same result. It would be diffi- 
cult now for a caudillo or an adventurer 
chief, however popular his name or cause 

— to gather round his standard the for- 
midable gaucho bands, all ready armed 
and mounted for march or fray, that were, 
scarce a quarter of a century ago, the ter- 
ror of farmers and proprietors, of land- 
owners and peasants, nay, even of towns- 
men and towns, of place-holding profes- 
sionals and city officials through the 
regions of La Plata and La Banda Orien- 
tal. But the surest guarantee of national 
stability is to be sought and found in the 
extension of agriculture, and in the yearly 
encroachment of peasant, or small farmer, 
proprietorship on the scantily peopled 
pasture grounds and cattle-breeding lands. 

Thus much for the east bank of the 
river. But on its western side a very dif- 
ferent range of scenery, little modified by 
man and his works, shows the gradual 
transition from cool to almost tropical 
climes. For here stretches back for hun- 
dreds of miles from the water's edge, up 
to the first outlying bulwarks of the great 
Andes Cordillera, the vast plain, level as 
the sea, of which it must have been the 
bed in times almost recent by geological 
computation, and known for the '* Grand 



Chaco," the " Sahara " or Flat of South 
America, like in relative position and tel- 
luric formation to its African counterpart, 
vet most unlike in the all-important attrir 
butes of moisture and fertility. For this, 
the Chaco, is a land of streams and springs, 
of marsh even and swamp, with abundant 
growth of grass, plant, and tree, especially 
to the north; its total extent is roughly 
estimated as that of the British islands 
fourfold. Nominally included, though not 
without rival claims on the part of Para- 
guay and of Bolivia, in the Argentine 
Confederation, it is practically indepen- 
dent of all these, or of any other European- 
founded rule, being still, as of old times, 
the territory and dwelling-place of native 
Indian tribes, warlike the most part, te- 
naciously attached — and small blame — 
to their own autonomous existence, and 
resistent to the last — a *Mast" which can 
hardly now be far distant — against every 
Argentine attempt at civilizing, that is, 
in plain language, subjugating and ulti- 
mately effacing them. Passively strong 
in their unincumbered activity for escape 
even more than for attack, and protected 
by the vastness of the open space over 
which they wander at will, they have thus 
far not only succeeded in baffling the or- 
ganized military expeditions, successively 
directed against them by the Buenos 
Ayres government, but have even baffled 
all but the narrowest encroachments of 
settlement and colonial proprietorship on 
their borders. Known, or rather desig- 
nated by various names — Tobas, M bay- 
as, Lenguas, Abipones, Payaguas, and 
others — the tribes, with a certain general 
similitude of features and habits, much 
like that existing, say, between the vari- 
ous subdivisions of Teutonic or Slavonic 
origins in Europe, yet differ widely in 
character, dispositions, and language ; 
some are pacific, and not unacquainted 
with agriculture and settled life; others, 
more warlike, subsist, it is said, almost 
wholly on the chase and foray ; some are 
almost exclusively fishermen, others 
herdsmen or shepherds. Their dialects, 
equally diversified, for each tribe has its 
own, can all, it seems, be without excep- 
« tion referred to the two great mother 
tongues of South America, the Quichna, 
language of Peru and Bolivia, and the 
Guarani, spoken in one form or other over 
the entire eastern half of the continent, 
and of which more anon. 

Such are, summarily taken, the inhabi- 
tants of the Chaco. Extending from the 
populous province of Santa F^, opposite 
to that of Entre-Rios northward, up to and 

beyond the furthest limits of Paraguay, 
its level surface, seldom modified, how« 
ever slightly, by difference of elevatioa 
or by the hand of man, presents in its 
changing vegetation a kind of scale by 
which to measure, not incorrectly, the 
ever-ascending range of its thermometric 
temperature. The solitary, oak -like 
ombu-tree, and the dwarfish willow and 
light-leaved poplar of the neighborhood of 
Rosario and Santa F^, gradually asso- 
ciate themselves further up with more 
varied and vigorous South Americaa 
growths, and the tall outlines of forest 
trees, worthy the name, trace themselves 
more and more frequently on the lovr 
sky-line, till, as we approach about half- 
way to Corrientes, palms, at first sparse 
and stunted in structure, then loftier and 
grouped in clusters and groves, give evi- 
dence of a more genial temperature ; 
while the bamboo, not, indeed, the feath- 
ery giant of the Philippines or Siam, but 
liker in size and fashion to the Chinese 
or Japanese variety, bends over the doubt- 
ful margin of river and swamp, often tan- 
gled with large-leaved water plants and 
creepers, the shelter and perch of gay 
kingfishers and flocks of parti-colored 
aquatic birds, the only visible inhabitants 
of this lone region, for the Indian tribes, 
shy, nor unreasonably so, of contact with 
the white races, keep aloof from the river 
coast, or, if they visit it, leave no trace of 
their having been there. 

At last, on the sixth noon since we left 
Montevideo, we are off the shelving banks 
and scattered houses of Corrientes, a 
large town, whose importance and future 
growth are sufficiently assured by its 
position close to the junction of the two 
chiefest rivers of central and eastern 
South America, the Parana and the Par- 
aguay. Of these the former — now 
subdividing itself into a network of count- 
less and ever-shifting channels and isl- 
ands, now united in one mighty stream 
of turbid yellow, here, a few miles north 
of the town — makes a stately bend, that 
half surrounds the fertile grazing-lands of 
Corrientes, and passes upwards to the 
north-east, where the eye loses sight of 
it among the dense forests of either 
bank; while from the north, exactly on 
the line thus far occupied by the Parana, 
descend the darker-colored waters of the 
Paraguay, itself a noble river, here over 
half a mile in width, with an open, well- 
defined channel, few islands, and a current 
strong even now, at the lowest water time 
of the year. At this junction of the three 
great streams, a scene surpassing in 



beauty and calm grandeur any other of 
the kind that it has been my lot to look 
on elsewhere, we reach the southernmost 
limits of the Paraguayan territory, sepa- 
rated from the Arg^entine, and in great 
part from the Brazilian, to the south and 
east by the Parana, while on the west the 
Paraguay divides it from the Grand 
Chaco, and northward the Apa, itself a 
tributary stream of the Paraguay, forms 
the boundary of the little but compact 
dominion. Thus surrounded, the land of 
Paraguay enjoys the advantages of an 
almost insular position, a circumstance 
which has, no doubt, considerably influ- 
enced alike its history and the character 
of its inhabitants in all times. 

Seen under the dazzling brilliancy of a 
South American sun, an adjunct rarely 
wanting here to the landscape, whatever 
the season of the year, Corrientes and its 
surroundings make up a panorama of rare 
loveliness and interest. To the east of 
OS the glittering slope rises from the water 
upwards, with a foreground of small 
steamers, sailing vessels, and countless 
boats moored along its margin, and above, 
a long succession of white, flat-roofed 
baildings, varied by tall church towers 
and the high fronts of public edifices — 
among them the spacious government 
bouse, once a Jesuit college; mixed with 
these are bright flower gardens, dark 
green orange-groves and over-topping 
palms ; beyond lie long ranges of tilled 
land and rich pasture meadows, bordered 
by strips and patches of forest ; till, north- 
east, the majestic curve of the shining 
river, reaching miles and miles away into 
the distance, rests on and blends with the 
white horizon line. North the sight rests 
on the cool, dense forests of Paraguay, 
and, breaking forth from among them, the 
mighty river of that land, sweeping down 
to merge its name and itself in the Pa- 
rana; while eastward extends the bound 
less green of the fertile though scarce 
tenanted Chaco. And to the south flow 
and mingle the widespread meshes of the 
Argentine River, a net of silver cast over 
a plain of emerald. A region as yet only 
the cradle of nations ; worthy to be one 
day their abode and palace. Already, 
signs are not wanting of hopeful meaning 
for the future; such are the crowds of 
boatmen, sailors, cattle-drivers, wagon- 
ers, peasants, townsmen, who give life to 
the wharves. The ceaseless loading and 
unloading, as cargoes of hides, wool, 
maize, flour, wood, fruits, etc., are shipped 
or transferred from one hold to another ; 
the herds of large, sleek, long-horned cat- 

tle grazing; the rich pasture lands by the 
river; the troops of half-tamed horses, a 
spirited and enduring breed, excellent for 
all kinds of work ; the many specks and 
patches of shining white, that tell of farm- 
houses and dwellings, scattered frequent 
over the uplands beyond ; these and much 
more denote at once the energy and the 
rising fortunes of the Corrientinos, as 
the inhabitants of the land are called, and 
who, though yearly recruited more and 
more with immigrants of various nation- 
alities, yet form the bulk of the resident 
population and give their tone to the rest. 
A tall, sinewy, hard-featured, manly race, 
of north-Spanish origin mostly, but with 
a frequent dash of Indian or Guarani 
blood — evidenced by the darkness of 
their hair, their complexion, and their 
eyes; they make a good, not unpictur* 
esque, appearance in their striped pon- 
chos — how it comes that these most 
convenient articles of out-of-door dress, 
manufactured the most nowadays in En- 
gland, are not a general European dress 
is a riddle to me — their slouched, broad- 
brimmed hats of felt or straw, and their 
wide boots, often adorned, after the tra- 
ditional South American fashion with 
huge silver-plated spurs, though these last 
are falling into gradual disuse, and bear- 
ing similarly adorned whips of cowhide in 
their hands. Hardy and enterprising in 
no ordinary degree, they are not always 
amenable to the restraints of law and gov- 
ernment; yet not of themselves wantonly 
turbulent or disposed to acts of violence ; 
they make up an excellent substratum and 
material for a State that cannot fail to hold 
high rank among those of the south-equa- 
torial world, whether it remain a compo- 
nent factor of the over-composite Argen- 
tine Confederation, or claim, as it is not 
wholly improbable it may, independence 
on its own account. The prevalent or, so 
to call it, oflicial language throughout Cor- 
rientes is Spanish, but in the interior of 
the household and out in the flelds Gua- 
rani is widely spoken ; a link, among many 
others, of unity between these provincials 
and the neighboring Paraguayans. The 
Chaco opposite is also, as to the tribes 
that roam over it and the dialects they 
employ, in great measure a Guarani coun- 
try; and, in spite of an expedition, actu- 
ally sent thither in view of subjugation by 
the central Argentine government, whose 
transports were lying moored alongside 
of the right bank as we passed, likely to 
remain so for years to come; nor have 
even the narrow encroachments of set- 
tlement and colonial proprietorship on 



its borders much success to boast of as 

** Here it was," said an Argentine pas- 
senger to me, as we stood too:ether on the 
paddle-box of our steamer, gazing on the 
mag[nificent view before us, ''here it was 
that the main army of the alh'es forced an 
entrance into Paraguay.'* He pointed to 
a strip of slightly rising ground on the 
northern bank of the Parana, just beyond 
its easterly bend; the sp>ot he indicated 
was backed seemingly by dense forest, 
and flanked by swamp and morass on 
either side. This was in fact Paso la 
Patria, the only available landing-point 
for troops crossing the stream from Cor- 
rientes ; and here it was that a united 
army of Brazilians, Argentines, and Uru- 
guayans, more than sixty thousand men 
in all, well-trained soldiers and supplied 
with the best of modern artillery, arms, 
and ammunition, and commanded by the 
best generals their respective countries 
could supply, were held for six long 
months at bay by considerably less than 
half their number of badly armed, badly 
clothed, worse fed Paraguayan recruits; 
and only at last succeeded in forcing the 
river passage at an immense loss, thanks 
not so much to their own courage or skill 
as to the rash over-daring of the Para- 
guayans themselves, who, again and again, 
abandoned the shelter of their defences 
to assume an offensive action, for which 
neither their number nor their means were 
in any degree sufficient. 

There is no need here to recount, even 
in abstract, the tragic story of the great 
Paraguayan war of 1865-70. Six disas- 
trous years, which so nearly accomplished 
the avowed aim of Paraguay's bitterest 
enemy, Brazil — for the Argentine and 
the Oriental Republics were merely the 
instruments of Brazilian policy through- 
out, and shared less in the intentions than 
in the acts of the empire — that, namely, 
of wiping out of existence the most he- 
roic, and, in many respects, the most 
hope-affording nationality of South Amer- 
ica. Nor shall I recapitulate the almost 
incredible follies and crimes of the selfish 
and parricidal madman, on whose behalf, 
simply because he was their lord and 
chief, the Paraguayans poured out their 
blood like water on the battle-field, while 
their wives and children perished by thou- 
sands in the mountains and forests, till 
scarce a third of what had been so lately 
a prosperous and rapidly increasing popu- 
lation was left, naked, starving, houseless, 
within the diminished limits of a land six 
years before a garden of Eden — now a 

desolate wilderness. Whoever wishes to 
know the details of that ruin may fiod 
them told, clumsily indeed and in writings 
devoid of literary merit, yet bearing suffi- 
cient evidence of general truth, by Thom- 
son, Masterman, and others of their class, 
actors themselves or sufferers in what 
they describe. Enough at present to say 
that from the Paraguayan officer, who, 
borne wounded and senseless from the 
mad fray on board a Brazilian steamer, 
only regained consciousness to tear ofiE 
the bandages, applied by pitying enemies 
to his wounds, and chose to bleed to death 
then and there rather than live an hour as 
a prisoner, down to the meanest private 
who, lying mangled and helpless on the 
field, had no answer for the offered quar- 
ter but a defiance or an attempted blow, 
one spirit only, that of devoted, all-absorb- 
ing patriotism, of a determination to dare 
everything in the country's defence, and 
an equally firm resolution not to survive 
its downfall, was the spirit of the entire 
Paraguayan nation ; the spirit of Saguo- 
tum and Numantia, of Spartan Thermop- 
ylae and Theban Chasronea in one. 

But not the Paraguay of the past — if 
indeed events that occurred within the 
last twenty years only can historically be 
termed past — but the Paraguay of the 
present is our theme. Keeping straight 
on to the north we have left the wide ex- 
panse of the deflected Parana behind us 
on our right, and are now between the 
comparatively high and densely wooded 
banks of the Paraguay River, hereabouts 
turbid and swollen by the discolored wa- 
ters of the Vermejo, or " Red" River, its 
tributary from the western Chaco, and 
the Bolivian hills far away. With a 
stream seldom subdivided, and a width 
equalling on an average that of the lower 
Danube at Widdin or Roustchouk, the 
Paraguay has, at least to a European eye, 
much more of the appearance of a river 
than the seemingly shoreless Plata, or the 
indefinitely ramified Parana. The banks 
too are much more varied in character 
than those of the last-named stream : clay, 
rock, sandstone, limestone, basalt, suc- 
ceeding each other in abrupt alternation; 
the vegetation is also more abundant and 
diversified; forest trees of great height 
and extent of branch, attesting the tough- 
ness of their wood fibre, and among them 
palms of every kind, some feathery, as 
the coco, some fan-leafed, some densely 
tufted, tall bamboos, tree ferns, resem- 
bling those of the Antilles, and a close 
undergrowth of shrub and plant, now 
starred with spring flowers, among which 



the white and piDk predominate, as the 
yellow in many districts of China and the 
blue in European uplands. Along the 
banks, among weed and driftwood, half 
in, half out of the water, lie huge, mud- 
colored alligators. I am told that they 
are not alligators, but crocodiles; it may 
be so, though in what precisely an alliga- 
tor differs from a crocodile I do not 
know; anyhow these amphibia of the 
Paraguay are, in outward appearance the 
very counterparts of their congeners in 
Siam. They watch us with dull, heavy 
eyes ; every now and then a pig-like car- 
pincho, a sort of would be hippopotamus, 
dives out of sight at our approach ; and 
we hear much of tigers, or rather panthers, 
said to abound hereabouts and to be good 
swimmers, but we do not meet any. To 
make up we see abundance of water- 
snakes, ugly, speckled things, said to be 
poisonous; and birds of every size, de- 
scription, and color. Frequent too, on 
either side of the river, but most so on 
the eastern, are the signs of human hab- 
itation ; pot-herb gardens, where gourds 
abound, fruit trees, orange-groves, now 
more golden than green in the lavish 
abundance of their sweet fruit ; little, 
almost country-English looking, cottajg^es, 
singly or in small groups, with neighbor- 
ing inclosures for cattle, perched on the 
upper banks at safe distance from the 
yearly water rise, while, moored under 
the shade of overhang[ing brushwood and 
creepers lie boats with mast or oar; ca- 
noes too with paddles, Indian fashion, are 
not rare. Such for a hundred miles and 
more upward from its junction with the 
Parana is the general aspect of the Para- 
guay and its shores. Of the war that 
raged so fiercely over and along this very 
river district in 1866-68, of the terrible 
combat of Bellaco, when the flower of the 
Paraguayan nationality, and indeed what- 
ever was yet available of the Paraguayan 
army, pitted in utter defiance, alike of 
strategy and of tactics, against an enemy 
thrice over their superior in numbers, and 
ten times so in arms and every appliance 
of war, with all the advantages too of a 
strongly intrenched position, perished in 
its reckless daring, refusing quarter or 
surrender almost to a man ; of the battle 
of Curupati, a little higher up, and the 
fierce onslaught of Tuyuti, where some 
eight thousand Paraguayan recruits, the 
half of them mere boys of twelve to six- 
teen years, drove before them, panic- 
stricken, the best of the allied armies, 
burned and sacked their camp, and re- 
duced them to an inaction of months 

before they ventured on further advance, 
and of the countless skirmishes, ambus- 
cades, surprises, bombardments, land 
fights, river fights, which, in league with 
famine, fire, and plague, made of these 
fair valleys one vast charnel house for at 
least a hundred and fifty thousand corpses, 
not a visible trace now remains. 

A thousand battles have assailed thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have passed 
away ; 
And slaughter heaped on high his weltering 
ranks ; 
Their very graves are gone, and what are 
Thy tide washed down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glassed with its dancing light the sunny ray. 

So sang Byron of the Rhine ; so might he, 
with scarce the chan^^e of a word, have 
sung of the lower Paraguay. Nature's 
** work of gladness," an hour interrupted 
by man*s equally appropriate work of de- 
struction and misery, is soon resumed ; 
with real or feigned indifference the 
mother Sphinx smiles on, whatever betide 
the wayfarers of her domain. 

Soon, however, we come on a break in 
the scene. The river, hemmed in to nar- 
rowness by high banks on either side, 
makes a sharp bend, or, rather, folds 
round upon itself, changing its direction 
from north to south-east, then south, then 
due east, then by west to the north again ; 
and amid these windings each shore, but 
principally the Parag^uayan, is scarred by 
the traces of ruined batteries, range above 
range; while some ruins of broken walls, 
that once were barracks and storehouses, 
amid dismantled field lines and earth- 
works, are overtopped by the tall ruins of 
a stately church — now a shattered shell of 
brick and stone. This is all that remains 
of Humaita, the important river position 
fortified by Lopez to be the Cronstadt or 
Chatham of Paraguay, the outermost and 
strongest bulwark of the interior and its 
capital, Asuncion. Nor could a better 
site have been chosen, had the means of 
defence been proportionate by land or 
water to the natural advantages of the 
position itself. Here, in 1868, a native 
garrison, scarce three thousand strong, 
held out, not by the strength of the out- 
works, which they were numerically insuf- 
ficient to man, nor by strength of artillery, 
of which, as of ammunition, they had little 
at command, and that of the worst qual- 
ity, but by sheer, dogged resolution and 
hand to-hand fighting for four months of 
continual bombardment ; carried on by a 



besiegincr force of at least twenty thou- 
sand men, backed from the river by a 
numerous f^eet of iron-cladsand monitors, 
Brazilian and Argentine, well supplied 
with whatever modern ingenuity has sup- 
plied to destructiveness, nor yielded till 
starvation compelled the surrender of the 
survivors, now less than a third of their 
orit^inal number, and who, at the time of 
their capitulation, had been four days 
without food of any sort. 

Never was a ruler, a chief, better served 
by his subjects than Solano Francisco 
Lopez, second of the family name ; and 
never did any one personally less deserve 
such devotedness and fidelity. While the 
Paraj^uayans, whom his reckless and dis- 
proportioned ambition, or vanity, alone 
had involved in a war with half, and more 
than half, the South American continent, 
a war of one to twenty, in which defeat 
and ruin might well from the outset have 
seemed foregone conclusions, were per- 
ishing for him by battalions in the field, 
or starving in the forest; men, women, 
and children, during the six long years of 
a naiion*s agony, preferring death in its 
worst forms to foreign rule, or to any con- 
ditions of peace with the invaders of their 
land, — Lopez himself, sole cause and orig- 
inator of the war, well provided not merely 
with the necessaries, but even with the 
luxuries of life, lay hid behind the securest 
-defences, or remained absent at safe dis- 
tance from the scene of actual combat: 
nay, worse yet, exercised on those within 
his immediate reach, on the best and most 
faithful of his own officers and servants, 
and ultimately on his nearest kinsmen, on 
his brothers, his sisters, his very mother, 
cruelties to which history, fortunately, 
supplies few parallels — I might almost 
say, taken in their totality, none. And 
yet it was for this man, sensualist, coward, 
tyrant, fratricide, matricide, that Paraguay 
lavished with scarce a murmur three- 
fourths of her life-blood; saw her men, 
women, and children exterminated by war, 
by disease, by famine, by misery of every 
kind, or carried off as slaves into distant 
bondage ; saw her towns destroyed, her 
villages and fields wasted, her cattle har- 
ried, her wealth plundered to absolute 
bareness, nor even then submitted ; only 
ceased to strive when she had practically, 
and for all national purposes, ceased to 
exist. More yet, were Lopez himself, in 
the worst anger of the infernal gods, to 
revive to-morrow on Paraguayan territory, 
his reappearance would, there is every 
reason to believe, at once rally round him 
the obedience and the devotion of a vast 

majority among the yet surviving inhabit- 
ants of the land. 

Rare even in Asia, rarer in Europe, 
rarest of all in the loosely constituted, 
half-cemented societies of the New World, 
such fidelity as that of the Paraguayans 
stands out in history as a phenoroenoQ 
hard to explain, as an insoluble riddle, ao 
enigma, almost a scandal to those around. 
Many and far-fetched enough in all coQ- 
science have been the conjectures. Thus, 
for instance, I have heard Paraguayan 
loyalty to this last and most unworthy of 
chiefs, no less than the submission showa 
to his far better and abler father. Carlo 
Lopez, and to the talented but half in- 
sane Francia of earlier years, attributed 
to — stupete gentes / — Jesuit training ; 
and referred to ancestral education in the 
celebrated but greatly exaggerated ** mis- 
sions,'* sftuated, for the most part, outside 
of the Paraguayan territory, of the sons of 
Loyola, long since overthrown by Spanish 
jealousy, dead for more than half a cen- 
tury before the first appearance of Fran- 
cia, and buried beneath the ponderous 
verse of Southey, and ** The Tale of Para- 
guay.'* A supposition, betraying no small 
ignorance as of the merits, so also of the 
defects of Jesuit teaching, and a yet greater 
ignorance of chronology and of the local 
facts themselves. The much talked-of 
" missions," or ** reductions," were almost 
wholly either in extra-Paraguay territory, 
that namely yet entitled Misiones, south 
of the Parana, or in Uruguay, or, further 
off yet, in Patagonia; and numbered at 
the most, taken conjointly, one hundred 
and seventy thousand souls. Besides, the 
disciples of the Jesuit fathers were wholly 
and solely Indian, of Guarani race indeed 
the most, and so far identical with the 
aborigines of Paraguay proper, but abso- 
lutely without, indeed carefully kept apart 
from, the Spanish element, which not only 
blends with but greatly preponderates 
over the native, or Guarani, in the Par- 
aguay of later history and of our own 
times. True the order of the Jesuits had, 
like other religious orders, its representa- 
tives in Spanish Paraguay, that is, down 
to the suppression of 1767; but their in- 
fluence there, as elsewhere, could have 
been at the most corrective, not formative 
of the national character. 

Other theorists again, somewhat better, 
perhaps, acquainted with the history of 
these lands, ** account for'' Paraguayan 
patriotism and loyalty, by attributing them 
to a kind of brutalization supposed to 
have been induced by the tyranny of 
Francia and of the Lopez family ; a psycho- 



logical paradox that Godwin's self might 
have admired, but hardly surpassed : to 
state is to refute it. Besides, the form of 
goveroment voluntarily adopted by an in- 
dependent State, such as was the republic 
of Paraguay ever since its final emancipa- 
tion from the Buenos Ayres yoke in 1811, 
is DOt nor can, of its very nature, be an 
extraneous influence, a moulding force 
introduced from without, but, on the con- 
trary, a self-consistent development, an 
expression of the national idea from with- 
in. It is the nation that creates the gov- 
eroment, not the government the nation. 
The follies, the crimes of a Francia, a 
Solano Lopez, are personal and their own ; 
the position they hold, the power they use 
or abuse, the honor paid, the obedience 
are the people's. Patriotism, loyalty, de- 
votion to a cause, to a leader, may indeed 
be fostered, be encouraged, they cannot 
be given by others, however skilful, far 
less can they be enforced, they are not 
things taught, but innate, not acquired, 
but connatural to the race. 

And thus it was with the Paraguayan 
nation. Half Basque, for such was the 
greater part of the orig.inal Spanish immi- 
gration in these regions, half Guarani 
Indian, it united in itself the tenacious 
courage, the unconquerable fidelity of the 
coaotrymen of Pelazo, to the indifference 
to life, the dread of dishonor, and the un- 
hesitating obedience to their chief that 
have at all times and in all lands distin- 
goisbed the Turanian, and among the 
many offshoots of that great stock, the 
Goarani race. And when, during the Sep- 
tember of 1877, at the distance of half the 
gk>be, the Japanese Saigo, and his five 
hundred warriors of Satzuma, defended 
the heights of Shira yama against fifteen 
thousand men, nor surrendered till death, 
they did but reproduce the heroism of 
their far-off Paraguayan half-cousins, alike 
OQt-Dumbered, alike unyielding to the last, 
at Huroaita, at Yoati, at Cerro-Cora, eight 
years before. Nor is there any need to 
search further after the causes, the origin 
of that indomitable, more than Spartan, 
ipirit : it is the undoubted heritage of a 
twofold race moulded into one, nor to be 
extinguished but with the race itself. 

Enough of this ; pleasanter scenes, sug- 
gestive of more cheerful thoughts and 
anticipations, await us in Paraguay. The 
Huroaita ruins are already lost to sight 
among the graceful palms and dense 
oraoge-groves of the country around ; the 
narrow river bend widens out again into a 
broad and easy water way, with abundant 
erideoce of reviving happiness and pros- 


perity along the green banks and meadows 
by its margin. Our next anchorage, for a 
few hours only, is off the flourishing little 
town of Pilar, the heembuin^ or loud voice 
of Guarani nomenclature, prettily situated 
on its small hill, yet almost hid from river 
view by the dense orchard screen inter- 
vening; it numbers, with its outlying 
hamlets, over ten thousand inhabitants, 
many of them settlers from not-distant 
Corrientes, and gives us, in the aspect of 
its cottage-like houses, and clean-kept 
streets and square, a foretaste of the neat- 
ness proper to Paraguayan villages and 
homes. No South American race has 
cleanlier instincts in person, dress, and 
dwelling than the Paraguayan; so far as 
my experience goes, cleanliness is the 
rule, not the exception, throughout South 
America, Brazil, perhaps, in part, ex- 
cepted. Pilar, at present the entrance 
harbor and commerce-gate of the republic, 
was, in days not very far back, the only 
point of immediate contact between Para- 
guay and the outer world permitted by 
the jealous policy of Francia ; and is even 
now, when the navigation and traffic of 
the Paraguay River are free from any ex- 
ceptional restraints, an important wharf, 
thanks to its excellent position. 

Doctor Francia's prohibitory system, 
by which he for many years isolated Para- 
guayan territory from what Carlyle has, 
graphically enough, more suo, if not ex- 
haustively, designated as a ** bewildered 
gaucho world,'' has been made a favorite 
theme for wordy abuse by a troop of 
superficial soi-disant liberal writers and 
interested assailants, from the Robertsons 
downwards. Nor would I for a moment 
wish even to palliate, much less to defend, 
the arbitrary and often cruel measures by 
which he carried out or supplemented his 
design. Yet in the main, and considering 
the isolation of the country as merely a 
temporary measure of protection against 
the fatal disintegration which must neces* 
sarily have ensued had Paraguay, with its 
yet unconsolidated and defenceless na- 
tionality, been left open to the irruption of 
the seething and surging deluge around, 
the Francian policy was right, and found 
ample justification in the astonishing vigor 
and concentrated patriotism of the little 
State, as displayed in the following gen- 
eration ; a vigor not even yet, after the 
unparalleled disasters of the late war, 
wholly exhausted. 

For about one hundred and fifty miles 
more we continue our up-stream way by 
the noble river, somewhat lessened in bulk 
above the confluence of the Vermejo, and 



now in breadth and volume of water equal- 
ling, in its yearly average of fulness, the 
Danube at Orsova ; while in beauty of 
banlcs and scenery it nnuch resembles the 
same river in its course from Regenswerlh 
to Vienna, only that here the sub-tropical 
luxuriance of palms, bamboos, cacti, ferns, 
and broad-leaved undergrowths of glossy 
green — for here the predominance of leaf 
over flower, so correctly noted by A. Wal- 
lace, as characteristic of the tropics, be- 
gins to make itself felt — impart to the 
Guarani landscape a special charm denied 
to the land of the southern Teutons. 
Several small towns, each with its nucleus 
of thirty or forty houses, the remaining 
dwellings being widely scattered around 
among gardens and orchards, peep, at 
safe distance from the annual floods, over 
the wooded banks. Of all these centres 
of reviving life none is prettier or livelier 
than Villeta, not far below the capital, 
Asuncion, and famous for its orange- 
groves, whose produce suffices for the 
markets of Buenos Ayresand Montevideo 
both. It is a pleasant sight to see the 
fruit brought on board, as it always is, by 
long flies of women, talking, laughing, 
singing as they trip along the planks that 
lead a considerable distance from the 
shore to the steamer, in their long white 
sacques, girt round the waist, and white 
cloths arranged mantilla-fashion over their 
heads — the invariable dress of the village 
daughters of the land. I had the good 
luck to be witness of the scene by torch- 
li(;ht, when dropping down the river on 
my return several weeks later. 

Above Villeta the east bank sinks to 
the water level and opens out a scene of 
exquisite loveliness. Far inland, across 
the plains, that here stretch to twenty and 
thirty miles distant from the river, fleld 
and orchard, farmhouse and cottage, with 
silvery glimpses of countless streams, 
tributaries of the Paraguay, and darker 
patches of forest; beyond, the blue ser- 
rated ranges of Mount Akai close in the 
view on the east ; to the north the quaint, 
conical hill of Lambari, covered with 
bright green brushwood from base to 
summit, rises isolated from the water's 
edge and hides from view the town of 
Asuncion close beyond it. This region 
is described, some years before the war, 
by Commander Page, of the well known 
United States expedition up these rivers, 
as one densely peopled in proportion to 
its fertility; and though terribly wasted 
during the later years of the great conflict 
and the Brazilian occupation that followed, 
it gives, in the frequency of its restored 

cottages, and the wide extent of its culti- 
vation, clear evidence of returning pros- 
perity and, if not wealth, at least suffi- 
ciency. Hour by hour, as we advance, 
the dwellings stand more frequent among 
the trees, the fruit or wood laden boats 
and gliding canoes more and more enliveo 
the river, till, rounding the basalt mass of 
Lambari we come full in view of the Para- 
guayan capital ; and, making our way with 
caution — for the water is at this time of 
the year at its lowest, the highest being io 
April or thereabouts — among the shoals 
that here beset the widened channel, we 
cast anchor opposite the custom-house 
landing-place, at the western extremity of 
the town, which, owing to a sudden bend 
in the river, lies west and east. 

The scene before us makes a striking 
contrast to that we have so lately wit- 
nessed. Nature soon repairs or conceals 
the traces of evil done by the wantonness 
of man ; fields, corpse-strewn and black* 
ened with Are one year, may be waving in 
all the golden luxuriance of harvest the 
next ; orchard trees, though hewn and 
shattered, are not long in putting forth 
new boughs, clothed with fresh foliage 
and fruit ; more yet, peasant cottages and 
even villages are speedily rebuilt ; a few 
added years of peace, and the deflciency 
in the rustic population will have made 
itself good and disappeared. And thus 
it is with the country surroundings of 
Asuncion. Not so the town ; its spacious 
ediflces, churches, or public buildings, 
some disused and deserted ; others, in 
their half neglect, evidently all too wide 
for the shrunken requirements of a dtmin- 
ished State and people ; others, sad monu- 
ments of ambitious and premature vanity, 
now shattered and shamefully defacea; 
everywhere empty shells of what once 
were happy dwellings, streets broken by 
wide gaps of ruin, and every token of 
havoc and spoil — these are wounds slow 
to heal, mutilations not easily replaced by 
fresh growth. But saddest of all sights io 
Asuncion is the very first and most con- 
spicuous object seen from the river : the 
enormous palace of Francisco Solano Lo- 
pez, barely completed before its lord's 
own downfall, now an empty shell, front- 
ing the stream in long rows of dismantled 
portals and windows, black, ragged holes, 
like the eye-sockets of a skull. Its shat- 
tered turrets, shivered cornices, and 
broken parapets announce only too faith- 
fully the absolute devastation of the lone 
and dismantled interior, whence the Bra- 
zilian plunderers carried off whatever 
they could lay hands on, even to the tim- 



ber of the floors and the steps of the stair- 
cases, besides haciciog and defacing what- 
ever, from its nature, could not be carried 
away. Thus.the palace has remained in 
appearance and condition, much resem- 
bling the Tuileries as I remember seeing 
them as late as '77, and, like them, the 
wretched memorial of a sham imperialism, 
cemented by immorality, and based on 
violence and fraud. For Lopez was one, 
Dor the least, of the many foolish moths, 
lared on to their destruction by the false 
glitter of the second empire; and the 
same year of 1870 that witnessed the 
overthrow of that colossal imposture at 
Sedan, witnessed, too, its New-World 
copy, Paraguayan pseudo - imperialism, 
laid prostrate with its dying chief on the 
bloody banks of the Aquidaban ; more 
fortunate indeed than its French proto- 
type, because illumined at least by one 
bright ray of honor in the warrior death of 
Lopez, who, in that last moment, showed 
himself worthy of the hero race he had 
too long misgoverned, while nothing but 
shame attends on the memories of Sedan. 
Within the town itself, the roofless 
walls of a spacious but unfinished theatre, 
aod the rough sketch, which, however, it 
would be a pity to leave as such, for the 
proportions are good, of a domed oratory, 
near the centre of the city, are also me- 
morials of the vaulting ambition that o'er- 
leapt itself and fell. The cathedral, and 
the yet older church called of Encarna- 
cion, where Francia sought but did not 
find a final resting-place, are heavy, un- 
graceful constructions of Spanish times. 
Nor have the government buildings, one 
of which was not the but a house of the 
terrible dictator, for be had many, and 
continually shifted from one to another, 
for fear, it is said, of assassination, any 
pretension to beauty, hardly, to show. 
Nor are the remains of the old Jesuit col- 
lege, now converted into barracks, any 
way remarkable. The streets, wide and 
regular, are ill-paved and deep in sand; 
the public squares undecorated and bare. 
Oq the other hand, the dwelling-houses, 
2t least such of them as are constructed 
00 the old Hispano-American plan, so ad- 
mirably adapted to the requirements of 
the climate, are solidly built and not de- 
void of that beauty which domestic archi- 
tecture never fails to have when in ac- 
cordance with domestic feeling and life: 
cool courts, thick walls, deeply recessed 
doors and windows, projecting eaves, 
heavy and protective roofs ; the furniture, 
<rf native woodwork, solid and tastefully 
carved, the pavement not rarely of mar- 

ble, local or 1 mported. I may here remark, 
in a passing way, that hard forest woods, 
often ornamental, and susceptible of high 
polish and delicate work, and marbles of 
various kinds and colors, some not infe- 
rior in beauty of marking to any that Italy 
herself can boast, will, when Paraguay is 
herself once more, take high place on the 
lists of her productions and merchandise. 
Needless to say that the houses are all of 
them, as houses should be, in a healthy 
but hot situation, one storied, except 
where a mania for European imitation, 
encouraged by Lopez, among other shams 
of Parisian origin, has reared a few un- 
comfortable and ill-seeming dwellings of 
two or even three stories, flimsy, preten- 
tious, and at variance alike with the cli- 
mate and the habits of Paraguay. To 
these unlucky anomalies may be added 
the huge, ill-built, unshapelv railway sta- 
tion (the railway line itself runs to the 
town of Paraguari about forty-five miles 
south-east, and is the earliest in date 
among South American lines) at the east 
end of the town ; though this construction 
fortunately possesses one good quality 
which may avail to remedy all its many 
bad ones — the quality of evident non- 
durability. As to the railway itself, it is, 
like most things involving complicated 
machinery and large capital in South 
America, a foreign undertaking, under 
foreign management ; with what benefit to 
the managers themselves and the share* 
holders I know not: a minimum of con- 
venience and utility to the country and its 
inhabitants is, at present, anyhow, the 
most evident result. Nor is this either 
new or strange. "You must scratch your 
own head with your own nails," says the 
homely Arab proverb; and if the re- 
sources of a land do not suffice to its pub- 
lic enterprises, even the most urgently 
needed ones not excepted, without calling 
in the capital and aid of foreigners — well, 
it had better wait till they do suffice. In 
this particular instance, however, amend- 
ment is promised ; let us hope it will be 

Pieasantest and cheerfullest of all out- 
door sights to the visitor of Asuncion is 
the market-place, situated, as near as may 
be, in the centre of the town. It is a 
large square block of open arcades and 
pillared roof, whither the villagers from 
around daily bring their produce, inter- 
mixed with other wares of cheap price 
and habitual consumption; the vendors 
are almost exclusively women. Maize, 
water-melons, gourds, pumpkins, oranges, 
manioca flour, sweet potatoes, and with 



these half-baked bread, cakes, biscuits, 
and sweets, such are the chief comesti- 
bles; tobacco, of dark color and stronj; 
flavor, and yerva, the dried and pulver- 
ized leaf often spoken of as Paraguayan 
tea, may be added to the list. Alonc^side 
of these a medley of cheap articles, for 
use or ornament, mostly of European 
manufacture, matches, combs, cigarette 
paper, pots and pans, water-jars, rope, 
knives, hatchets, small looking-glasses, 
handkerchiefs, ponchos, native saddles, 
much resembling Turkish ones, and very 
commodious for riding in, coarse silver 
ornaments — I might All a page more at 
least with the list — are exposed for sale. 
But the chief interest of the scene is the 
study of the buyers and sellers them- 
selves. The men, who mostly belong to 
the former class, and are from the villages 
round about, arrive mounted on small 
rough-coated horses, undipped of mane 
or tail. The rider's dress consists of a 
pair of loose cotton drawers, coarsely em- 
broidered, and over them and round the 
waist a many-folded loin-cloth, generally 
white; or else of a pair of loose, baggy 
trousers, much like those worn by Turk- 
ish peasants in Anatolia, and girt by a 
broad leather belt, almost an aproo for 
width. These, with a white shirt, and 
over all a striped or flowered poncho, 
complete the dress ; boots are rarely worn, 
though the bare feet are sometimes, but 
rarely, equipped with silver-plated spurs. 
The features and build of the riders pre- 
sent every gradation of type from the light- 
complexioned, brown-haired, red-bearded, 
honest manliness of the ancestral Basque, 
to the copper hue, straight, black hair, 
narrow, dark eyes, obliquely set, beard- 
less chin, flattened nose, and small, wiry 
frame of the aboriginal Guarani. But it 
is not with the Spanish as with the Lusi- 
tanian breeds. For while the latter when 
crossed with Turanian, Aryo-Asiatic, or 
African blood passes at once into an infe- 
rior type of physical degeneration, as Goa, 
Macao, Timor, and Brazil, unfortunately 
prove beyond question, the Spanish seems, 
when similarly blended, to result gener- 
ally in a progeny no way inferior in cor- 
poral strength and comeliness to the 
Iberian stock, and occasionally superior. 
The fact is one continually noticed, and 
much commented on ; yet I have never 
either heard or been able myself to supply 
any plausible conjecture of its cause. Nor 
again among the Creole descendants of 
Hispano-Indian parents is the trite, and, 
in too many other instances, over-true 
remark that the mestizo or half-blood 

generally exhibits in himself the good of 
neither stock, the evil of both, in the least 
verified ; far more often the exact reverse, 
as here in Paraguay, where Vascoo honor, 
truthfulness, daring, and generosity, have 
blended with Guarani gentleness, endur* 
ance, and unquestioning loyalty, even to 
the death, into a type that is not the ex- 
ception but the rule. 

Such are the Paraguayans of the coud- 
try. In Asuncion itself, under the com- 
bined influence of a large number of 
foreign residents, of a river traffic that 
gives the town somewhat of the character 
of a seaport, and of the evils, physical and 
social, inseparable, it seems, from large 
towns and capitals, the national type is, 
necessarily, not so uniform or pure. lo 
fact, to judge of Paraguay in general by 
the sights and experiences of Asuncion, 
would be no less unjust than to take 
Southampton, Liverpool, or even London, 
whereupon to form an exhaustive estimate 
of England and its inhabitants. Here, 
too, at the capital, the depression, or pros- 
tration rather, consequent on the late war, 
has been deepest, and is even now most 
persistent. Yet of the courtesy, the hos- 
pitality, the sociability, the cheerfulness, 
the music, the dancing, for all which Par- 
aguay has long been celebrated, nor 
wrongly so, the visitor will even now find 
plenty to greet him in Asuncion, where, 
among the officials especially, he will 
meet the most highly endowed by birth 
and education that the nation can show. 
Still, after all, it is not here, but in the 
country districts that the distinctive pat- 
terns of Paraguayan life are clearest 
drawn; and it is there accordingly that 
my readers, if they care to accompany 
me, must seek them. 

From Chamber^ JoumaL 


Franxes had not succeeded in resolv- 
ing this question in her mind when Thurs- 
day came. The two intervening days had 
been very quiet. She had gone with her 
mother to several shops, and had stood by 
almost passive and much astonished while 
a multitude of little luxuries which she 
had never been sufficiently enlightened 
even to wish for, were bought for her. 
She was so little accustomed to lavish ex« 
penditure, that it was almost with a sense 



of wroDg-doiog that she contemplated all 
these costly trifles, which were for the use 
not of some typical fine lady, but of her- 
self, Frances, who had never thought it 
possible she could ever be classed under 
that title. To Lady Markham, these del- 
icacies were evidently necessaries of life. 
And then it was for the first time that 
Frances learned what an evening dress 
meant — not only the garment itself, but 
the shoes, the stockings, the gloves, the 
ribbons, the fan, a hundred little acces- 
sories which she had never so much as 
thought of. When you have nothing but 
a set of coral or amber beads to wear with 
your white frock, it is astonishing how 
much that matter is simpliiied. Lady 
Markham opened her jewel-boxes to pro- 
vide for the same endless roll of necessi- 
ties. "This will go with the white dress, 
and this with the pink," she said, thus 
revealing to Frances another delicacy of 
accord unsuspected by her simplicity. 

** but, mamma, you are giving me so 
many things!" 

•' Not your share yet," said Lady Mark- 
bam. And she added : ** But don't say 
aoytbiog of this to your aunt Cavendish. 
She will probably give you something out 
of her hoards, if she thinks you are not 

This speech checked the pleasure and 
gratitude of Frances. She stopped with 
a little gasp in her eager thanks. She 
wanted nothing from her aunt Cavendish, 
she said to herself with indignation, nor 
from her mother either. If they would 
but let her keep her ignorance, her pleas- 
are in any simple gift, and not represent 
her, even to herself, as a little schemer, 
trying how much she could get. Frances 
cried rather than smiled over her pearls 
aod the set of old-gold ornaments, which 
but for that little speech would have made 
her happy. The suggestion put gall into 
everything, and made the timid question 
in her mind as to Lady Markham's gener- 
ous forbearance with her sister-in-law, 
more difficult than ever. Why did she 
bear it.^ She ought not to have borne it 
— not for a day. 

Oo the Wednesday evening before the 
visit to Portland Place, to which she 
looked with so much alarm, two gentle- 
men came to dinner at the invitation of 
Markham. The idea of two gentlemen to 
dinner produced no exciting effect upon 
Frances so as to withdraw her mind from 
the trial that was coming. Gentlemen 
were the only portion of the creation with 
which she was more or less acquainted. 
Even in the old palazzo, a guest of this 

description had been occasionally re- 
ceived, and had sat discussing some point 
of antiquarian lore, or something about the 
old books at Colla, with her father, without 
taking any notice, beyond what civility 
demanded, of the little girl who sat at the 
head of the table. She did not doubt it 
would be the same thing to-night; and 
though Markham was always nice^ never 
leaving her out, never letting the conver- 
sation drop altogether into that stream of 
personality or allusion which makes soci- 
ety so intolerable to a stranger, she yet 
prepared for the evening with the feeling 
that dulness awaited her, and not pleas- 
ure. One of the guests, however, was of 
a kind which Frances did not expect. He 
was young, very young in appearance, 
rather small and delicate, but at the same 
time rehned, with a look of gentle melan- 
choly upon a countenance which was al- 
most beautiful, with childlike, limpid eyes, 
and features of extreme delicacy and pu- 
rity. This was something quite unlike 
the elderly antiquarians who talked so 
glibly to her father about Roman remains 
or Etruscan art. He sat between Lady 
Markham and herself, and spoke in gentle 
tones, with a soft, affectionate manner to 
her mother, who rephed with the kindness, 
easy affectionateness, which were habitual 
to her. To see the sweet looks which 
this young gentleman received, and to 
hear the tender questions about his health 
and his occupations which Lady Markham 
put to him, awoke in the mind of Frances 
another doubt of the same character as 
those from which she had not been able 
to get free. Was this sympathetic tone, 
this air of tender interest, put on at will 
for the benefit of everybody with whom 
Lady Markham spoke? Frances hated 
herself for the instinctive question which 
rose in her, and for the suspicions which 
crept into her mind on every side and un- 
dermined all her pleasure. The other 
stranger opposite to her was old — to her 
youthful eyes — and called forth no inter- 
est at all. But the gentleness and melan- 
choly, the low voice, the delicate features, 
something plaintive and appealing about 
the youth by her side, attracted her inter- 
est in spite of herself. He said little to 
her, but from time to time she caught him 
looking at her with a sort of questioning 
glance. When the ladies left the table, 
and Frances and her mother were alone 
in the drawing-room. Lady Markham, who 
had said nothing for some minutes, sud- 
denly turned and asked: ** What did you 
thinic of him, Frances .'*'* as if it were the 
most natural question in the world. 



"Of whom?" said Frances in her as- 

••Of Claude, my dear. Whom else? 
Sir Thomas could be of no particular 
interest either to you or me." 

** I did not know their names, mamma; 
I scarcely heard them. Claude is the 
younc; gentleman who sat next to you? " 

•*And to you also, Frances. But not 
only that. He is the man of whom, I sup- 
pose, Constance has told you — to avoid 
whom, she left home, and ran away from 
roe. Oh, the words come quite appropri- 
ate, though I could not bear them from 
the month of Charlotte Cavendish. She 
abandoned me, and threw herself upon 
your father's protection, because of " 

Frances had listened with a sort of con- 
sternation. When her mother paused for 
breath, she filled up the interval: "That 
little, gentle, small young man ! " 

Lady Markham looked for a moment as 
if she would be angry; then she took a 
better way, and laughed. ** He is little and 
young," she said; "but neither so young 
Qor even so small as you think. He is 
most wonderfully, portentously rich, my 
dear; and he is very nice and good and 
intelligent and generous. You must not 
take up a prejudice against him because 
he is not an athlete or a giant. There are 
plenty of athletes in society, my love, but 
ver^, very few with a hundred thousand a 

*Mt is so strange to me to hear about 
money," said Frances. ** I hope you will 
pardon me, mamma. I don't understand 
you. I thought he was perhaps some 
one who was delicate, whose mother, per- 
haps, you knew, whom you wanted to be 
kind to." 

"Quite true," said Lady Markham, 
patting her daughter*s cheek with a soft 
finger ; " and well judged ; but something 
more besides. I thought, I allow, that it 
would be an excellent match for Con- 
stance ; not only because he was rich, but 
aiso because he was rich. Do you see 
the difference ? " 

" I — suppose so," Frances said; " but 
there was not any warmth in the admis- 
sion. " I thought the right way," she 
added after a moment, with a blush that 
stole over her from head to foot, "was 
that people fell in love with each other." 

" So it is," said her mother, smiling 
upon her. " But it otten happens, you 
know, that they fall in love respectively 
with the wrong people." 

•'It is dreadful to me to talk to you, 
who know so much better," cried Frances. 
" All that / know is from stories. But I 

thought that even a wrong person, whom 
you chose yourself, was better than —^ ** 

"The right person chosen by your 
mother? These are awful doctrines, 
Frances. You are a little revolutionary. 
Who taught you such terrible things?" 
Lady Markham laughed as she spoke, and 
patted the girKs cheek more affectionately 
than ever, and looked at her with uncload- 
ed smiles, so that Frances took courage. 
"But," the mother went on, "there was 
no question of choice on my part. Con- 
stance has known Claude Ramsay all her 
life. She liked him, so far as I knew. I 
supposed she had accepted him. It was 
not formally announced, I am happy to 
say; but I made sure of it, and so did 
everybody else — including himself, poor 
fellow — when, suddenly, without any 
warning, your sister disappeared. It was 
unkind to me, Frances; oh, it was unkind 
to me ! " 

And suddenly, while she was speaking, 
two tears appeared all at once in Lady 
Markham's eyes. 

Frances was deeply touched by this 
sight. She ventured upon a caress, which 
as yet, except in timid return to those 
bestowed upon her, she had not been bold 
enough to do. " I do not think Constance 
can have meant to be unkind," she said. 

" Few people mean to be unkind," said 
this social philosopher, who knew so much 
more than Frances. " Your aunt Caven* 
dish does, and that makes her harmless, 
because one understands. Most of those 
who wound one, do it because it pleases 
themselves, without meaning anything — 
or caring anything — don*t you see?— • 
whether it hurts or not." 

This was too profound a saying to be 
understood at the first moment ; but Fran- 
ces had no reply to make to it. She said 
only by way of apology: "But Markham 
approved ? " 

" My love," said her mother, " Mark- 
ham is an excellent son to me. He rarely 
wounds me himself — which is perhaps 
because he rarely does anything particu- 
lar himself — but he is not always a safe 
guide. It makes me very happy to see 
that you take to him, though you must 
have heard many things against him; but 
he is not a safe guide. Hush; here are 
the men coming up-stairs. If Claude talks 
to you, be as gentle with him as you can 
— and sympathetic, if you can," she said 
quickly, rising from her chair, and mov- 
ing in her noiseless, easy way to the other 
side. Frances felt as if there was a mean- 
ing even in this movement, which left 
herself alone with a vacant seat beside 



her ; but she was confused as usual by all 
the novelty, and did not understand what 
the meaning was. 

It was balked, however, if it had any- 
thing to do with Mr. Ramsay, for it was 
the other gentleman — the old gentleman, 
as Frances called him in her thoughts — 
who came up and took the vacant place. 
The old gentleman was a man about forty, 
with a few gray hairs among the brown, 
and a well-knit, manly figure, which showed 
vtry well between the delicate youth on 
one hand and Markham's insignificance 
on the other. He was Sir Thomas, whom 
Lady Markham had declared to be of no 
particular interest to any one; but he 
evidently had sense enough to see the 
charm of simplicity and youth. The at- 
tention of Frances was sadly distracted 
by the movements of Claude, who fidgeted 
about from one table to another, looking 
at the books and the nicknacks upon 
them, and staring at the pictures on the 
walls, then finally came and stood by 
Markham*s side in front of the fire. He 
did well to contrast himself with Mark- 
ham. He was taller, and the beauty of 
his countenance showed still more strik- 
ingly in contrast with Markham's odd little 
wrinkled face. Frances was distracted 
by the look which he kept fixed upon her- 
self, and which diverted her attention in 
spite of herself away from the talk of Sir 
Thomas, who was, however, very n/Vtf, and 
she felt sure, most interesting, and in- 
structive, as became his advanced age, if 
only she could attend to what he was say- 
ing. But what with the lively talk which 
her mother carried on with Markham, and 
to which she could not help listening all 
through the conversation of Sir Thomas, 
and the movements and glances of the 
melancholy young lover, she could not fix 
her mind upon the remarks that were ad- 
dressed to her own ear. When Claude 
began to join languidly in the other talk, 
it was more difficult still. ** You have got 
a new picture. Lady Markham,'' she heard 
him say; and a sudden quickening of her 
attention, and another wave of color and 
beat passing over her, arrested even Sir 
Thomas in the much more interesting 
observation which presumably he was 
about to make. He paused, as if he, too, 
wanted to hear Lady Markham's reply. 

''Shall we call it a picture? It is my 
little girl's sketch from her window where 
she has been living — her present to her 
mother ; and I think it is delightful, though 
in the circumstances I don't pretend to be 
a judge." 

'VI Where she has been living? Frances 
grew redder and hotter in the flush of in- 
dignation that went over her. But she 
could not stand up and proclaim that it 
was from her home, her dear loggia, the 
place she loved best in the world, that the 
sketch was made. Already the bonds of 
another life were upon her, and she dared 
not do that. And then there was a little 
chorus of praise, which silenced her still 
more effectually. It was the group of 
palms which she had been so simply proud 
of, which — as she had never forgotten — 
had made her father say that she had 
grown up. Lady Markham had placed it 
on a small easel on her table ; and Frances 
could not help feeling that this was less 
for any pleasure it gave her mother, than 
in order to make a little exhibition of her 
own powers. It was, to be sure, in her 
own honor that this was done, and what 
so natural as that the mother should seek 
to do her daughter honor? but Frances 
was deeply sensitive, and painfully con- 
scious of the strange, tangled web of mo- 
tives, which she had never in her life 
known anything about before. Had the 
little picture been hung in her mother's 
bedroom, and seen by no eyes but her 
own, the girl would have found the most 
perfect pleasure in it ; but here, exhibited 
as in a public gallery, examined by admir- 
ing eyes, calling forth all the incense of 
praise, it was with a mixture of shame 
and resentment that Frances found it out. 
It produced this result, however, that Sir 
Thomas rose, as in duty bound, to exam- 
ine the performance of the daughter of 
the house ; and presently young Ramsay, 
who had been watching his opportunity, 
took the place by her side. 

*' I have been waiting for this," he said 
with his air of pathos. ** I have so many 
things to ask you, if you will let me, Miss 

"Surely," Frances said. 

•* Your sketch is very sweet — it is full 
of feeling — there is no color like that of 
the Riviera. 1 1 is the Riviera, is it not ? " 

*' O yes," cried Frances, eager to seize 
the opportunity of making it apparent that 
it was not only where she had been living, 
as her mother said. ** It is from Bordi- 
ghera, from our loggia, where I have lived 
all my life." 

** You will find no color and no vegeta- 
tion like that in London," the young man 

To this Frances replied politely that 
London was full of much more wonderful 
things, as she bad always heard ; but felt 



somewhat disappointed, supposing that 
his communications to her were to be 
more interesting than this. 

" And the climate is so very different," 
he continued. " I am very often sent out 
of England for the winter, though this 
year they have let me stay. I have been 
at Nice two seasons. I suppose you know 
Nice ? It is a very pretty place ; but the 
wind is just as cold sometimes as at home. 
You have to keep in the sun ; and if you 
always keep in the sun, it is warm here." 

*^ But there is not always sun here/' 
said Frances. 

** That is very true ; that is a very clever 
remark. There is not alwavs sun here. 
San Remo was beginning to be known, 
when 1 was there; but I never heard of 
Bordighera as a place where people went 
to stay. Some Italian wrote a book about 
it, I have heard — to push it, no doubt. 
Could you recommend it as a winter place, 
Miss Waring? I suppose it is very dull, 
nothing going on?" 

**0h, nothing at all," cried Frances 
eagerly. ** All the tourists complain that 
there is nothing to do." 

** I thought so," he said; **a regular 
little Italian dead-alive place." Then he 
added after a moment's pause : ** But of 
course there are inducements which might 
make one put up with that, if the air hap- 
pened to suit one. Are there villas to be 
had, can you tell me ? They say, as a 
matter of fact, that you get more advan- 
tage of the air when you are in a dull 

** There are hotels," said Frances, more 
and more disappointed, though the bej^in- 
ning of this speech had given her a little 

"Good hotels?" he said with interest. 
** Sometimes they are really better than a 
place of one's own, where the drainage is 
often bad, and the exposure not all that 
could be desired. And then you j^et any 
amusement that may be going. Perhaps 
you will tell me the names of one or two ? 
for if this east wind continues, my doctors 
may send me off even now." 

Frances looked into his limpid eyes 
and expressive countenance with dismay. 
He must look, she felt sure, as if he were 
making the most touching confidences to 
her. His soft, pathetic voice gave a,/aux 
air of something sentimental to those 
questions, which even she could not per- 
suade herself meant nothing. Was it to 
show that he was bent upon following 
Constance wherever she might go? That 
must be the true meaning, she supposed. 

He must be endeavoring by this mock 
anxiety to find out how much she knew of 
his real motives, and whether he might 
trust to her or not. But Frances resented 
a little the unnecessary precaution. 

** I don't know anything about the ho- 
tels," she said. ** I have never thought 
of the air. It is my home — that is all." 

** You look so well, that I am the more 
convinced it would be a good place for 
me," said the young man. ** You look in 
such thorough good health, if you will 
allow me to say so. Some ladies don't 
like to be told that; but I think it the 
most delightful thing in existence. Tell 
me, had you any trouble with drainage, 
when you went to settle there? And is 
the water good? and how long does the 
season last? I am afraid I am teasing 
you with my questions ; but all these de* 
tails are so important — and one is so 
pleased to hear of a new place." 

" We live up in the old town," said 
Frances with a sudden flash of malice. 
** I don't know what drainage is, and 
neither does any one else there. We 
have our well in the court — our own well. 
And I don't think there is any season. 
We go up among the mountains, when it 
gets too hot." 

** Your well in the court I " said the sen- 
timental Claude, with the look of a poet 
who has just been told that his dearest 
friend is killed by an accident, **with 
everything percolating into it ! That is 
terrible indeed. But," he said after a 
pause, an ethereal sense of consolation 
stealing over his fine features — ** there 
are exceptions, they say, to every rule ; 
and sometimes, with fine health such as 
you have, bad sanitary conditions do not 
seem to tell — when there has been no 
stirring up. I believe that is at the root 
of the whole question. People can go on, 
on the old system, so long as there is no 
stirring up; but when once a beginning 
has been made, it must be complete, or it 
is fatal." 

He said this with animation much 
greater than he had shown as yet ; then 
dropping into his habitual pathos: **If I 
come in for tea to morrow — Lady Mark- 
ham allows me to do it, when I can, when 
the weather is fit for going out — will yoa 
be so very kind as to give me half an 
hour. Miss Waring, for a few particulars? 
I will take them down from your lips -— 
it is so much the most satisfactory way; 
and perhaps you would add to your kind- 
ness by just thinking it over beforehand 
— if there is anything I ought to know." 



'*6ut I am going oat to-morrow, Mr. 

"Then after to-morrow," he said; and 
rising with a bow full of tender deference, 
wcDt up to Lady Markham to bid her 
good-night. *' I have been having a most 
interesting conversation with Miss War- 
ing. She has given me so many ren- 
uij^nements" he said. ** She permits me 
to come after to-morrow for further par- 
ticulars. Dear Lady Markham, good 
night, and au revoirP 

"What was it that Claude was saying 
to you, Frances?" Lady Markham asked 
with a little anxiety, when everybody 
save Markham was gone, and they were 

** He asked me about Bordighera, mam- 

**Poor dear boy ! About Con, and what 
sbe had said of him.^ He has a faithful 
heart, though people think him a little too 
much taken up with himself." 

**He did not say anything about Con- 
stance. He asked about the climate and 
the drains — what are drains? — and if 
the water was good, and what hotel I 
could recommend." 

Lady Markham laughed and colored 
slightly, and tapped Frances on the cheek. 
** You are a little satirical 1 Dear Claude ! 
be is very anxious about his health. But 
doa*t you see," she added, " that was all a 
covert way of finding out about Con ? He 
wants to go after her ; but he does not 
want to let everybody in the world see 
that he has gone after a girl who would 
not have him. I have a great deal of 
sympathy with him, for my part." 

Frances had no sympathy with him. 
Sbe felt, on the other hand, more sym- 
pathy for Constance than had moved her 
yet To escape from such a lover, Fran- 
ces thought a girl might be justified in 
flying to the end of the world. But it 
oever entered into her mind that any like 
danger to herself was to be thought of. 
Sbe dismissed Claude Ramsay from her 
tboQgbts with half resentment, half amuse- 
ment, wondering that Constance had not 
told her more; but feeling, as no such 
image had ever risen on her horizon be- 
fore, that she would not have believed 
Constance. However, her sister had hap- 
pily escaped, and to herself, Claude Ram- 
say was nothing. Far more important 
was it to think of the ordeal of to morrow. 
She shivered a little even in her warm 
room as she anticipated it. England 
seemed to be colder, grayer, more devoid 
of brightness in Portland Place than in 
£atoQ Square. 

From The Gentleman* s Magazine. 

Among the most delightful, wholesome, 
and original novelists of our own day in 
our own land, we must place the twin 
authors Besant and Rice. Death has 
broken the link, and Mr. Besant writes 
now alone. 

In France is another twin pair of novel- 
ists, Erckmann and Chatrian, also delight- 
ful, wholesome, and original, the bond ^ 
unbroken, differing chiefly from our En- 
glish literary Damon and Pythias in the 
fact that these French novelists write 
with a deliberate political purpose; they 
are the novelists of republicanism, the 
panegyrists of the French Revolution. 
They have almost invariably worked to- 
gether. In their photographs they appear 
arm in arm. We believe that the onlv 
independent work has been '* Les Bri- 
gands des Vosges," which was by Erck- 
mann alone. 

Their first appearance was in short sto- 
ries, strongly influenced by Hoffmann and 
Balzac; the latter especially, as in the 
story *• Science et G^nie," which appeared 
in 1850. A chemist, Dr. Spiridion, had 
discovered an elixir which petrified all it 
touched. He confided his secret to a 
friend, the sculptor Michael, who, think- 
ing that now he had the power of impos- 
ing on the world as a transcendent artist, 
killed Spiridion, mastered his elixir, and 
petrified the woman he loved and then 

In his ** Brigands of the Vosges,** Erck- 
mann introduced a Dr. Matthseus, who 
makes studies in metempsychosis. As 
this romance did not attract much atten- 
tion, he reintroduced Dr. Matthasus in 
another work, published in 1859, the first 
that attracted the attention of the public. 
It is the story of a metaphysical Don 

Then came a series of wild stories : 
** Conies Fantastiques." i860; ** Contes 
de la Montagne," i860; "Contes des 
Bords du Rhin," 1861. These stories 
are full of imagination, often of a some- 
what Poe ghastliness. One will suffice. 
A painter lives opposite a tavern that 
stands in very bad repute, because so 
many of the sojourners there have hanged 
themselves. He suspects an old woman 
called "the bat," and at length discovers 
how the suicides are brought about. She 
has a room opposite the guest-room in the 
tavern, and she hangs a figure from a 
beam in her chamber; the guest sees 
this, watches it swing, is filled with an 
irresistible desire to copy the proceeding, 



and hangs himself. Then the painter 
works upon the imagination of ** the bat," 
in a similar manner, and drives her to 
suicide. Erckmann and Chatrian did not 
believe in the Napoleon myth. Their 
stories, ^'Histoire d'un Conscrit," 1864, 
" Waterloo,'* 1865, turned on the wars of 
Napoleon. "L'Histoire d*un Homme 
du Peuple," 1865, showed the political 
tendencies of the writers, and About was 
commissioned to write against them. 
Then came the famous ** Histoire d*un 
Paysan," 1869, appearing on the eve of 
the great Franco-German war, and the fall 
of the empire. 

One of their roost delightful stories, 
'* Friend Fritz,*' has been dramatized, and 
roakes a pleasant play. We have seen it 
admirably rendered at Munich. It was 
performed, but did not take, in London. 

Many of the stories of the twin authors 
have been translated into English, but 
have not, we believe, had a large sale. A 
few have also been rendered into German. 
Some novels which appeared of late years 
under the separate name of Erckmann for 
a while led to the supposition that the 
union was broken, but this was not the 
case. These tales were by Jules Erck- 
mann, a relative, and an admirer of Napo- 
leon I., not by Emile the collaborator with 

In their more recent stories, they have 
shown a bitter hostility to Germany, due 
to their both being natives of Alsace. 
They are both, however, of Teutonic de- 
scent ; Erckmann*s mother tongue was 
German. He did not learn French till 
he was twelve. Both, to the present day, 
speak it with a strong Alsatian pronun- 

M. Erckmann was born on May 20th, 
1822, at Pfalzburg, in lower Alsace, and 
till he was nineteen years old he was in 
the lyceum of Professor Perrot. Then 
Chatrian was in the same school. He 
was four years younger than Erckmann, 
and was born at Boldestenthal, near 
Pfalzburg. His father had been engaged 
in glass works at Aberschweiler, but 
owing to the collapse of the business had 
come to great poverty. Chatrian was in- 
tended by his father to enter a glass fac- 
tory ; and after he left the school, his 
father sent him to Belgium, where, how- 
ever, he did not remain long. He re- 
turned to Pfalzburg, and, till he could find 
an opening, took the place of under usher 
in the school where he had been a pupil. 
Emile Erckmann was the son of a book- 
seller, and after he had finished his stud- 
ies at Pfalzburg he went to Paris, where 

he studied law, and took his doctor*s de* 
gree. During the vacation he returned 
home, and called on his old master Per- 

"Well,** said he, **bow is the school 
going on ? ** 

** Alas I since you left,** sighed Profes- 
sor Perrot, ** I have had no good scholars 
who have taken eagerly to their work, ex- 
cept perhaps one, come out of the glass- 
works. He has his wits about him, and 
is worth something better than blowing 
bottles. 1*11 ask him to supper, you mast 
meet him, I like the lad.** 

So Erckmann met Chatrian and tbev 
sat chatting together at the professor's till 
midnight, when they quitted without a 
thought of the close union that would one 
day subsist between them. 

Two years passed. During that time 
Chatrian had been in a glass-shop in Bel- 
gium, and had given it up and become 
usher in Perrot*s school. Erckmann left 
the University of Paris and came to Pfalz- 
burg, where he called on Perrot. His old 
master was reading a manuscript when 
Erckmann came in. 

** Look here,** said he. ** Do yoa re- 
member meeting a lad here at your last 
visit? That lad is now a teacher in my 
school, and is bent on entering the worla 
of letters. In spite of his father's wishes, 
he has turned his back on bottles and 
tumblers, and taken in hand equally brittle 
materials. Look ! '* 

He held out a cahier, Erckmann took 
it ; it was an essay on some social ques- 
tion, treated from a very liberal point of 
view. He read it then and there with in- 
terest. The opinions were his own. 

Old Professor Perrot shook his head. 
** You young firebrands will set the world 
in a blaze. 1 don't like your doctrines — 
but allez / you are young and 1 am old ; 
we see life from opposite sides.** 

Erckmann at once sought out Chatrian, 
and proposed to him to unite with him in 
establishing a democratic paper, the for- 
mer to find the funds, both to write the 
articles. They started their paper, which 
was entitled the Dimocrate du Rhin. It 
ran through eight numbers and was then 
suppressed by the police. Then they com- 
posed together a four act drama, '* Alsace 
in 1814,** which was put in rehearsal. A 
couple of days before its production, it 
was vetoed by the prefect. 

Next year the iriends went to Paris, 

and wrote some articles for the Revue di 

Paris ; a fortnight after, the Revue di 

Paris was stopped by the government. 

! Then the Moniteur Universel offered 



them the lower portions of the paper, 
called the rea de chaussie reserved for 
romances, popular essays, and tales. They 
accepted the position and were well paid, 
but they were both ardent revolutionists, 
and their writings exhibited the tendency 
of their minds. The editor insisted on 
their writing without political purpose, 
and as they refused to do this, they were 
obliged to withdraw from the staff. For 
ten years they had hard work to eke out 
a livelihood with their pens. Their style 
was not to the French taste, it was too 
German. Their tendency was too demo- 
cratic for the editors to trust them. 

At last they got into the yournal des 
Dibats and the Revue des Deux Mondes^ 
and their literary name was made. 

This is an age of interviewing. The 
Americans introduced it, and it must have 
pleased the popular taste, for the custom 
of interviewing has spread through Eu- 
rope. Our literary Siamese twins have 
been interviewed, and we will draw on the 
description of the men and their habita- 
tions, from a German correspondent who 
sought them out, and literally forced from 
them the secret of their method of com- 

Chatrian had obtained a situation on 
the Chemin de Fer de VEst^ before Alsace 
and Lorraine were separated from France ; 
it is the line from Paris to Strasburg. 

Our interviewer went direct to the ter- 
minus and inquired for Alexander Cha- 

** M. Chatrian has just gone to break- 
fast," was the answer. 

" Where .? " 

** He is at M. Dyxvd^s ^tablissement de 
bouiilon^ at the corner of the Boulevard 

Accordingly our interviewer turned his 
steps in that direction. The itablisse- 
mtnts de bouillon are excellent institu- 
tions, where substantial and wholesome 
meals are to be had at a very modest 
charge ; they are not, however, frequented 
b^ persons of the better class. Here, at a 
side table, sat a little man with dark, curly 
hair and high forehead, hard at work de- 
spatching a roast fowl. His features were 
marked, his moustache military, his eye 
dark and active. Round his neck he wore 
a tie, d la Byron. With the audacity 
which characterizes the professional inter- 
viewer, our German correspondent took 
a chair and placed himself at the same 
table. Chatrian looked sharply at him, 
and put down his knife and fork. 

" I have intruded on your breakfast," 
said the interviewer, " with deliberate pur- 

pose. I have come here to see you, to 
describe you, to listen to you, and to print 
what you say. But that which I specially 
desire to know is, how do you and £rck- 
mann manage your books, so that it is 
impossible for the keenest critic to say, 
this is Erckmann and that is Chatrian ? " 

Chatrian smiled. ** When two fellow- 
workers are moved by a common principle, 
have the same social, political, moral, and 
artistic sentiments, they must fuse their 
identity. We write, not to establish our 
names as authors, but to popularize and 
spread principles which are dear to us. 
We two were born under the same sky, 
saw the same scenes, were nurtured under 
the same influence, taught in the same 
school; we live together, talk, eat, smoke 
together. We have no differences." 

That was all the German journalist 
could extract, and that was about what he 
knew without asking. 

However, he would not be satisfied. 
** I am amazed," said he, *' that you find 
time for such literary activity, while oc- 
cupying an important position on the 
Chemin de Fer de FEst,^ 

Chatrian smiled again, and said, ** My 
duties on the line consist in seeing that 
others work. I have my own office, in 
which I am private." 

Nothing further was to be screwed out 
of him. At last, Chatrian stood up, lit 
his cigar, and with a bow took up his hat 
and left the il(^blissement de bouillon. 

The attempt had failed; perhaps our 
interviewer had gone too abruptly to work. 
Chatrian had drawn the mantle closer 
around the mystery; he had not cast it 
aside. Nothing daunted, the interviewer 
started off for Raincy, where the fellow- 
workers lived. He had told Chatrian that 
he would do himself the honor of calling 
on Erckmann, ** Humph," grunted the lit- 
tle man; **no good. The bonne mW say 
will ssLy^ Afonsieur est sorti^ — and you 
will return no wiser." 

However, undeterred by the warning, 
the journalist started. Raincy lies a few 
miles to the east of Paris, on the Stras- 
burg line. Raincy is neither a village nor 
a town. It was formerly a noble park 
that belonged to Louis Philippe. The 
second empire confiscated the estate, laid 
out boulevards through the midst of the 
romantic wilderness, and built villas and 
country houses along the boulevards and 
among the trees. A walk through the 
streets of Raincy shows a great variety of 
scene. Here we have charming gardens 
and labyrinthine walks among artificial 
shrubberies, or bits of wild park with for- 



est trees, left uatoucbed. Here again, 
fields of strawberries and potatoes, then a 
splendid villa with marble steps and stat- 
ues and vases. At one moment we seem 
to be in Paris, then in the next in the 
depths of an untouched forest. The near- 
est approach to it is the Bois de Chanzy, 
outside Brussels. No omnibus, cab, tram- 
car, disturbs the quiet of Raincy; men 
in blue blouses pass to and from their 
work, and private carriages handsomely 

The house of the '* inseparables" lies 
not far from the station, on the Boulevard 
du Nord. The villa lies half buried 
among chestnut trees and beech, a little 
Tusculum, more German in appearance 
than French. 

Our interviewer rang the bell, where- 
upon dogs began to bark, and when the 
Alsatian bonne opened the door, out 
bounced a great black Newfoundlander, 
accompanied by a lively terrier, also in- 
separables. The visitor sent in his card, 
with the words inscribed on it in pencil, 
*'Ddsire voir M. Erckmann pour une mi- 
nute et demie," fully resolved, if accorded 
his minute and a half, to make it into 
three-quarters of an hour. The bonne 
said nothing about her master's absence, 
as Chatrian had warned ; and she returned 
a minute after with a stout, middle-sized, 
hearty man, with short, fair moustache, a 
bald head, and a broad, moon-shaped, rosy 
face — Emile Erckmann, with extended 
hand and hearty welcome. 

The interviewer makes his apologies for 
interrupting the author — that he was in- 
terrupting him was shown by the pen 
stuck behind his ear — and then plainly 
told his object. He said that he had vis- 
ited M. Chatrian, but had found him a 
sealed book which he could not open, and 
that therefore he came to M. Erckmann, 
in hopes of finding him more favorably 
and communicatively disposed. 

Erckmann's grey eyes twinkled with 

** So, you are a German I Ugh ! I can 
speak a little German myself." Of course 
he could; he had not learned French till 
he was twelve years old, but he affected 
to be altogether and intensely French and 

He considered a moment, and then 
said, ** Very well ! very well I Authors 
have to undergo criticism as well as the 
children of their brains. Come in, come 

Then he threw wide his iron gate and 
led the visitor into the garden. *'0f 
course you must see and know everything. 

I keep pigeons. Here they are. Also 
fowls; do you desire to know what the 
dififerent kinds are ? Your German read- 
ers will be interested to know that I eat 
eggs. So does Chatrian. We are alike 
in that, as in many other things. We 
both eat eggs. We eat both the white 
and the yolk. That is interesting, is it 
not? Also, we sometimes spill the yellow 
fluid on our clothes. That is remarkable, 
is it not ? When we have done that, we 
wipe it off again. Is that unlike other 
folk ? H so, make a note and print it." 

Then, relaxing his bantering humor, 
he led his visitor to one of the pleas- 
ant shady bosquets, with which Raincy 
abounds, where was a bench, on which 
they seated themselves. 

♦• Do you work out of doors?" 

Erckmann shook his head. '* No. In- 
spiration comes to me only at my writing- 
desk. To me it is impossible to describe 
the scenery and to people it with ideal 
creations, so long as I live amidst it. It 
is now years since I left Alsace, but home 
scenes rise up before me clothed in ro- 
mance. Should I ever leave Raincy, I 
shall write a novel about it — but I could 
not do that now. I could zioK, My imag- 
inative faculty will not allow roe ; all 
around is associated with the prose of 
every-day life." 

Then Erckmann led his visitor into the 
house and showed him all over it. Cha- 
trian lived on the lower story, Erckmann 
on the upper floor. Below, opposite the 
entrance door, is the dining-room, fur- 
nished in oak in an old-fashioned style ; 
over the door is a picture of Rouget de 
Lisle, the composer of the ** Marseillaise,'* 
between two statuettes, one of the Apollo 
Belvidere, the other the Venus of Milo. 
The other rooms are furnished in modern 
style, simply but comfortably. 

On the first floor are two parlors for the 
reception of friends and visitors. Erck- 
mann's work-room is a little square office 
papered bright blue, and wholly uo* 
adorned. In the middle of the room a 
plain deal table, round, with a desk on it. 
The floor strewn with books and papers. 

** The handwriting of Erckmann," says 
the interviewer, ** is the most regular I 
ever came across. He writes on quarto 
sheets, in easy lines, without corrections 
or blots, and with the utmost regularity 
between his lines — it is like a page of 
Armenian typography. The library of 
the two friends consists exclusively of 
historical and philosophical works. Mod- 
ern fiction and poetry are unrepresented, 
classic literature sparsely represented in 



It. Erckmann told me later that it was 
Dot possible for him to combine original- 
ity of conception with the reading of other 
authors' works of imagination/' 

In an adjoining building is a charming 
billiard-room, adorned, along the walls, 
with antiquities of all sorts. This is the 
rendezvous of a small circle of choice 
spirits, Parisian authors, artistes, and 
theatrical directors, who meet here once a 
week, to drink beer and smoke Erckmann- 
Chatrian's excellent cigars. Erckmann 
himself is not a billiard-player, and often 
whilst the billiard-room is full of his friends 
he remains invisible in his '*blue den.'' 
He has, maybe, an idea, a scene, that must 
be described, and till that is written he is 
useless in society; his mind is elsewhere 

The villa is supplied with every comfort, 
a bathroom, a balcony, and a veranda. 

When the visitor had been taken over 
the house and shown everything, down to 
the page that Erckmann was engaged on 
when his bell rang, with the ink yet wet 
upon it, they sat down in the dining-room 
at the oak table ; a foaming German stone 
jug of Strasburg beer was produced, to- 
gether with cigars, and there, at last, the 
secret of how the two friends worked to- 
gether and produced writings of such uni- 
form texture came out. We will give M. 
Erckmann's own words : — 

•• Chairian," he said, "goes every morn- 
ing at nine to Paris and returns home 
every evening at six. I, however, am 
here day by day, from early till late, with- 
out leaving the house. You know the re- 
sult. You will be disposed to undervalue 
the importance of Chatrian and his signifi- 
cance for myself and our labors, when I 
tell you that since we have worked to- 
gether Chatrian has not once put pen to 
paper. Yes, it is as I say. There you 
have the whole secret of the unity of our 
style, which is not denied us, even by our 
most bitter opponents. There is, there 
can be, no difference in style, for the style 
of all our united compositions is exclu- 
sively mine?'* 

Now it was clear why Chatrian was shy 
of communicating the secret. He was 
afraid lest a superficial judgment should 
be drawn by one not thoroughly con- 
versant with the circumstances. That the 
value of Chatrian is great may be seen 
from what follows : " Every evening after 
we have dined," continued Erckmann, 

"when the bonne has replenished our 
tankards with ale, we begin our work in 
common. I read over to Chatrian what I 
have written during the day. Chatrian 
possesses, in the highest degree, what 
may be termed the talent of composition. 
He has almost invariably some corrections 
to make in my work. I, naturally a color- 
ist, fall too readily into the fault of inac- 
curate perspective — for instance, I paint 
a subsidiary character with as much detail 
as my hero or heroine. Here Chatrian 
interferes. He has the critical faculty in 
him so keen, and so correct, that I am 
often amazed at it, and though he proceeds 
ruthlessly to work, slashing, arranging, 
recasting my work, I sit by without resent- 
ment, knowing that he is right and I am 
wrong. He points out my weak pages 
and tears them up. I must rewrite them. 
He lowers the tone of my vigorous scenes ; 
I feel a struggle in me, but I submit. He 
has a remarkable talent for all the nuances 
of expression ; I do not know his equal in 
this. Nevertheless, as he repeatedly ad- 
mits, he never could do the work I execute. 
He is no prose writer. His verses are 
exquisite, and remind one more of your 
German than of our French poets. As 
soon as we have gone over and corrected 
the work of the day, we discuss the work 
of the morrow. The plan of the whole 
romance is decided on between us, before 
I put pen to paper, so also is it clear to 
me what I am to do on the following day, 
before that day begins. Here it is that 
Chatrian's talent shows itself in its full 
greatness. He is a master of grouping ; 
he has a subtle eye for all the ramifica- 
tions of a plot, he understands the relief 
in which the several characters are to 
stand. So we often sit together till mid- 
night and after, pencil in one hand, note- 
book in the other, and exchange our 
thoughts half audibly. At one o'clock the 
housekeeper has orders to come in and 
tell us it is bed-time. \i we do not stir, 
she puts the lamp out. Sometimes we 
are so full of our subject that we cannot 
goto bed, and we sit on till three o'clock, 
in the dark. H the housekeeper finds 
that we are not in bed at one o'clock she 
has orders to make a racket in the room, 
to bang the door, knock over the chairs, 
rattle the fire-irons to drown our conver- 
sation, and drive our ideas out of oar 

S. Baring-Gould. 



From Macmillan's Magazine. 

" For facts are stubborn things.'* 



"A ghost/* I repeated, holdingr the 
poor, trembling little thing more closely. 
I think my first sensation was a sort of 
rage at whomever or whatever — ghost or 
living being — had frightened her so ter- 
ribly. "Oh, Nora darling, it couldn't be 
a ghost. Tell me about it, and I will try 
to find out what it was. Or would you 
rather try to forget about it just now, and 
tell me afterwards? You are shivering 
so dreadfully. I must get you warm first 
of all." 

'* But let me tell you, mamma — I must 
tell you," she entreated piteously. *Mf 
you couiii explain it, I should be so glad, 
but I am afraid you can't,*' and again a 
shudder passed through her. 

I saw it was better to let her tell it. I 
had by this time drawn her inside ; a door 
in front stood open and a bright fire caught 
my eyes. It was the kitchen, and the 
roost inviting-looking room in the house. 
I peeped in — there was no one there, but 
from an inner room we heard the voice of 
the landlady hushing her baby to sleep. 

" Come to the fire, Nora," I said. Just 
then Regifie came clattering down-stairs, 
followed by Lieschen, the taciturn '* maid 
of the inn. 

"She has taken a candle up-stairs, 
mamma, but I've not taken off my boots, 
for there's a little calf, she says, in the 
stable, and she's going to show it me. 
May I go.**" 

** Yes, but don't stay long," I said, my 
opinion of the sombre Lieschen improv- 
ing considerably, and when they were out 
of hearinjj, "Now, Nora dear, tell me 
what frightened you so." 

" Mamma," she said, a little less white 
and shivering by now, but still with the 
strange, strained look in her eyes that I 
could not bear to see, " it couldnU have 
been a real man. Listen, mamma. 
When you and Reggie went, I got out a 
needle and thread — out of your little bag 

— and first I mended a hole in my glove, 
and then I took off one of my shoes — 
the buttoning up the side ones, you know 

— to sew a button on. I soon finished it, 
and then, without putting my shoe on, 1 
sat there, looking out of the window and 
wondering if you and Reggie would soon 
be back. Tlien I thougiit perhaps I could 
see if you were coming better from the 
window of the place outside our room, 
where ilie hay and bags of flour are.'' \\ 

think I forgot to say that to get to our 
room we had to cross at the top of the 
stair a sort of landing, along one side of 
which, as Nora said, great bags of flour 
or grain and trusses of hay were ranged ; 
this place had a window with a somewhat 
more extended view than that of our 
room.) " I went there, still without roy 
shoe, and I knelt in front of the windoiir 
some time, looking up the rough path, and 
wishing you would come. But I was not 
the least dull or lonely. I was only a 
little tired. At last I got tired of watching 
there, and I thought I would come back 
to our room and look for something to do. 
The door was not closed, but I think I 
had half drawn it to, as I came out. I 
pushed it open and went in, and then — I 
seemed to feel there was something that 
had not been there before, and I looked 
up; and just beside the stove — the door 
opens against the stove, you know, and so 
it had hidden it for a moment as it were 

— there, mamma, stood a man, I saw 
him as plainly as I see you. He was star^ 
ing at the stove, afterwards I saw it roust 
have been at your little blue paper parcel. 
He was a gentleman, mamma — quite 
young. I saw his coat, it was cut like 
George Norman's. I think he must have 
been an Englishman. His coat was dark, 
and bound with a little very narrow ribboQ 
binding. I have seen coats like that. He 
had a dark blue necktie, his dress all 
looked neat and careful — like what all 
gentlemen are ; I saw all that, maroroa, 
before I clearly saw his face. He was 
tall and had fair hair — I saw that at 
once. But I was not frightened ; just at 
first I did not even wonder how be could 
have got into the rooro — now I see he 
couldnU without roy knowing. My first 
thought, it seems so silly," and Nora here 
smiled a little, "my first thought was 
'Oh, he will see I have no shoe on,'" — 
which was very characteristic of the child, 
for Nora was a very " proper " little girl 

— " and just as I thought that, he seemed 
to know I was there. For he slowly 
turned his head from the stove and looked 
at me, and then I saw bis face. Oh mam- 
ma ! " 

" Was there anything frightening about 
it?" I said. 

" I don't know," the child went on. *• It 

was not like any face I ever saw, and yet 

it does not sound strange. He had nice, 

rather wavy fair hair, and I think he must 

have been nice-looking. His eyes were 

I blue, and he had a little fair moustache. 

I But he was so fearfully pale, and a look 

, over all that I can't describe. And his 



eyes when he looked at roe seemed not to 
see me^ and yet they turned on me. They 
looked dreadfully sad, and, though they 
were so close to me, as if they were miles 
and miles away. Then his lips parted 
slightly, very slightly, as if he were going 
to speak. Mamma," Nora went on im- 
pressively, "they would have spoken if / 
had said the least word — I felt they 
woald. But just then — and remember, 
maroroa, it couldn't have been yet two sec- 
onds since I came in, I hadn't yet had 
time to get frightened — just then there 
came over me the most awful feeling. I 
kntw'w was not a real man, and I seemed 
to hear myself saying inside my mind, 
* It is a ghost,' and while I seemed to be 
saying it — I had not moved my eyes — 
while 1 looked at him — " 
•* He disappeared ? " 
** No, mamma. He did not even disap- 
pear. He was just no Ioniser there, I 
was staring at nothing! Then came a 
sort of wild fear. I turned and rushed 
down-stairs, even without my shoe, and 
all the way the horrible feeling was that 
even though he was no longer there he 
might still be coming after me. I should 
oot have cared if there had been twenty 
tipsy peasants down-stairs ! But I found 
Liescheo. Of course I said nothing to 
her; I only asked her to come up with a 
light to help me to find my shoe, and as 
soon as I had put it on I came outside, 
and ran up and down — it was a long 
time, I think — till you and Reggie came 
at last. Mamma, can you explain it ? " 

How I longed to be able to do so I But 
I would not deceive the child. Besides, 
it would have been useless. 

"No, dear. As yet I cannot. But I 
will try to understand it. There are sev- 
eral ways it may be explained. Have you 
ever heard of optical delusions, Nora?" 

"I am not sure. You must tell me;" 
and she looked at me so appeaiingly, and 
with such readiness to believe whatever I 
told her, that I felt I would give anything 
to restore her to her former happy fear- 

But just then Reggie came in from the 

'*We must go up-stairs," I said; "and, 
Liescben," turning to her, "bring up our 
sapper at once. We are leaving very 
early to-morrow morning, and we will go 
early to bed." 

**0h, mamma," whispered Nora, "if 
only we had not to stay all night in that 
room ! " 

Bat there was no help for it, and she 
was thankful to hear of the success of our 

expedition to the post-ofHce. During sup- 
per we, of course, on Reggie's account, 
said nothing of Nora's fright, but as soon 
as it was over, Reggie declaring himself 
very sleepy, we got him undressed and 
put to bed on the settee originally in- 
tended for Nora. He was asleep in five 
minutes, and then Nora and I did our 
utmost to arrive at the explanation we so 
longed for. We thoroughly examined the 
room ; there was no other entrance, no 
cupboard of any kind even. I tried to 
imagine that some of our travelling cloaks 
or shawls hanging on the back of a chair 
might, in the uncertain light, have taken 
imaginary proportions; that the stove it- 
self might have cast a shadow we had not 
before observed ; I suggested everything, 
but in vain. Nothing shook Nora's con- 
viction that she had seen something not 
to be explained. 

" For the light was not uncertain just 
then," she maintained ; " the mist had 
gone and it had not begun to get dark. 
And then I saw him j^ plainly! If it had 
been a fancy ghost it wouldn't have looked 
like that — it would have had a long white 
thing floating over it, and a face like a 
skeleton perhaps. But to see somebody 
just like a regular gentleman — I could 
never have/rt«^/>^that ! " 

There was a good deal in what she said. 
I had to give up my suggestions, and I 
tried to give Nora some idea of what are 
called " optical delusions," though my own 
comprehension of the theory was of the 
vaguest. She listened but 1 don't think 
my words had much weight. And at last 
I told her I thought she had better go to 
bed and try to sleep. I saw she shrank 
from the idea, but it had to be. 

" We can't sit up all night, I suppose," 
she said, "but I wish we could. 1 am so 
dreadfully afraid of waking in the night, 
and — and — seeing him there again, ''^ 

"Would you like to sleep in my bed — 
though it is so tiny, I could make room 
and put you inside?" I said. 

Nora looked wistfully at the haven of 
reluge, buc her good sense and consider- 
ateness for me came to the front. 

"No," she said, "neither of us would 
sleep, and you would be so tired to-morrow. 
I will get into my own bed, and I will try 
to sleep, mamma." 

" And listen, Nora; if you are the least 
frightened in the night, or it you can't 
sleep, call out to me without hesitation. I 
am sure to wake often, and I will speak 
to you from time to time." 

That was the longest night of my life ! 
The first part was not the worst. By 



what I reallv thought a fortunate chance 
it was a club ni^ht of some kind at Sii* 
berbach — a musical club, of course; and 
all the musically gifted peasants of the 
country-side assembled in the sanded 
parlor of the Katze. The noise was some- 
thing indescribable, for though there may 
have been good voices among them, they 
were drowned in the din. But though it 
prevented us from sleeping, it also fairly 
drove away all ghostly alarms. By twelve 
o'clock or thereabouts the party seemed 
to disperse, and all grew still. Then came 
some hours 1 can never forget. There 
was faint moonlight by fits and starts, 
and I not only found it impossible to sleep, 
1 found it impossible to keep my eyes shut. 
Some irresistible fascination seemed to 
force them open, and obliged me ever and 
anon to turn in the direction of the stove, 
from which, however, before going to bed, 
I had removed the blue paper parcel. 
And each time I did so I said to myself, 
"Am I going to see that figure standing 
there as Nora saw it? Shall I remain 
sane if I do? Shall I scream out? Will 
it look at me in turn with its sad, unearthly 
eyes ? Will it speak ? If it moves across 
the room and comes near me, or if 1 see 
it going towards Nora, or leaning over my 
Reggie sleeping there in his innocence, 
misdoubting of no fateful presence near, 
what, oh ! what shall I do?** 

For in my heart of hearts, though I 
would not own it to Nora, I felt convinced 
that what she had seen was no livinj; hu- 
man being — whence it had come, or why^ 
I could not tell. But in the quiet of the 
night I had thought of what the woman at 
the china factory had told us, of the young 
Englishman who had bought the other 
cup, who had promised to write, and never 
done so. What had become of him? 
"If," I said to myself, "if I had the 
slightest reason to doubt his being at this 
moment alive and well in his own country, 
as he pretty certainly is, I should really 
begin to think he had been robbed and 
murdered by our surly landlord, and that 
his spirit had appeared to us — the first 
compatriots who have passed this way 
since, most likely — to tell the story.** 

I really think I must have been a little 
light-headed some part of that night. My 
poor Nora, I am certain, never slept, but 
I can only hope her imagination was less 
wildly at work than mine. From time to 
time I spoke to her, and every time she 
was awake, for she always answered with 
out hesitation. 

" I am quite comfortable, dear mamma. 
And I don't think 1 am very frightened ; ** 

or else, " I have not slept much, but I 
have said my prayers a great many times 
and all the hymns I could remember. 
Don*t mind about me, mamma, and do try 
to sleep.** 

I fell asleep at last, though not for long. 
When I woke it was bright morning — 
fresher and brighter, I felt, as J threw 
open the window, than the day before. 
With the greatest thankfulness that the 
night was over at last, as soon as I was 
dressed I began to put our little belong- 
ings together, and then turned to awake 
the children. Nora was sleeping quietly ; 
it seemed a pity to arouse her, for it was 
not much past six, but I heard the people 
stirring about down-stairs, and I had a 
feverish desire to get away; for though 
the daylight had dispersed much of the 
"eerie ** impression of Nora's fright, there 
was a feeling of uneasiness, almost of in- 
security, left in my mind since recalling 
the incident of the young man who had 
visited the china factory. How did I 
know but that some harm had really come 
to him in this very place? There was 
certainly nothing about the landlord to in- 
spire confidence. At best it was a strange 
and unpleasant coincidence. The even- 
ing before I had half thought of inquiring 
of the landlord or his wife, or even of 
Lieschen, if any English had ever before 
stayed at the Katze. If assured by them 
that we were the first, or at least the first 
"in their time," it would, I thought, help 
to assure Nora that the ghost had really 
been a delusion of some kind. But then 
again, supposing the people of the Inn hesi- 
tated to reply — supposing the landlord 
to be really in any way guilty, and my in- 
quiries were to rouse his suspicions, would 
1 not be really risking dangerous enmity, 
besides strengthening the painful impres- 
sion left on my own mind — and this cor- 
roboration of her own fear might be in- 
stinctively suspected by Nora, even if I 
told her nothing? 

" No,** I decided, " better leave it a 
mystery, in any case till we are safely 
away from here. For allowing that these 
people are perfectly innocent and harm- 
less, their even telling me simply, like the 
woman at Gruenstein, that such a person 
///i^been here, that he had fallen ill, pos- 
sibly died here — I would rather not know 

I it. It is certainly not probable that it was 
so; they would have been pretty sure to 
gossip about any occurrence of the kind, 
taciturn though they are. The wife would 
have talked of it to me — she is more 
genial than the others,** for I had had a 

[ little kindly chat with her the day before 



dprapos of what every mother, of her class 
at least, is ready to talk about — the baby. 
A pretty baby too, though the last, she 
informed me with a sort of melancholy 
pride, of four she had "buried" — using 
the same expression in her rough German 
as a Lancashire factory hand or an Irish 
peasant woman — one after the other. 
Certainly Silberbach was not a cheerful 
or cheering spot. "No, no," I made 
up my mind, " I would rather at present 
know nothing, even if there is anything 
to know. I can the more honestly en- 
deavor to remove the impression left on 

The little girl was so easily awakened 
that I was half inclined to doubt if she 
had not been "shamming" out of filial 
devotion. She looked ill still, but in- 
finitely better than the night before, and 
she so eagerly agreed with me in my wish 
to leave the house as soon as possible 
that I felt sure it was the best thing to do. 
Reggie woke up rosy and beaming — evi- 
dently no ghosts had troubled his night's 
repose. There was something consoling 
and satisfactory in seeing him quite as 
happy and hearty as in his own English 
nursery. But though he had no uncanny 
reasons like us for disliking Silberbach he 
was quite as cordial in his readiness to 
leave it. We got hold of Lieschen and 
asked for our breakfast at once. As I 
bad told the landlady the night before that 
we were leaving very early, our bill came 
up with the coffee. It was, I must say, 
moderate in the extreme — ten or twelve 
marks, if I remember rightly, for two 
oights' lodging and almost two days' board 
for three people. And such as it was, 
they had given us of their best. I felt a 
little twinge of conscience, when 1 said 
good-bye to the poor woman, for having 
harbored any doubts of the establishment. 
Eat when the gruff landlord, standing out- 
tide the door, smoking of course, nodded 
a surly adieu in return to our parting 
£reetiag, my feeling of unutterable thank* 
iOlDess that we were not to spend an- 
other night under his roof recovered the 

** Perhaps he is offended at my not 
ittviog told him how I mean to get away, 
notwithstanding his stupidity about it," I 
ttid to myself, as we passed him. But no, 
there was no look of vindictiveness, of 
Bttlice, of even annoyance, on his dark 
face. Nay more, I could almost have fan- 
cied there was the shadow of a smile as 
K^ie tugged at his Tam o' Shanter by 
way of a final salute. That landlord was 
really one of the most incomprehensible 


human beings it has ever been my fate to 
come across in fact or fiction. 

We had retained Lieschen to carry our 
modest baggage to the post-house, and 
having deposited it at the side of the road 
just where the coach stopped, she took 
her leave, apparently more than satisfied 
with the small sum of money I gave her, 
and civilly wishing us a pleasant journey. 
But though less gruff she was quite as 
impassive as the landlord. She never 
asked where we were going, if we were 
likely ever to return again, and like her 
master, as I said, had we been staying 
there still, I do not believe she would ever 
have made an inquiry or expressed the 
slightest astonishment. 

*' There is reallv something very queer 
about Silberbach," I could not help saying 
to Nora, " both about the place and the 
people. They almost give one the feeling 
that they are half-witted, and yet they evi- 
dently are not. This last day or two I 
seem to have been living in a sort of 
dream, or nightmare, and I shall not get 
over it altogether till we are fairly out of 
the place," and though she said little, I 
felt sure the child understood me. 

We were of course far, far too early for 
the post. The old man came out of his 
house and seemed amused at our haste to 
be gone. 

" I am afraid Silberbach has not taken 
your fancy," he said. "Well, no wonder. 
I think it is the dreariest place I ever 

"Then you do not belong to it? Have 
you not been here long?" I asked. 

He shook his head. 

"Only a few months, and I hope to get 
removed soon," he said. So he could 
have told me nothing, evidently ! *Mtis 
too lonely here. There is not a creature 
in the place who ever touches a book — 
they are all as dull and stupid as they can 
be. But then they are very poor, and they 
live on here from year*s end to year's 
end, barely able to earn their daily bread. 
Poverty degrades — there is no doubt of 
it, whatever the wise men may say. A 
few generations of it make men little bet- 
ter than " he stopped. 

" Than ? " I asked. 

" Than," the old philosopher of the 
post-house went on, "pardon the expres- 
sion — than pigs." 

There were two or three of the fraternity 
grubbing about at the side of the road; 
they may have suggested the comparison. 
I could hardly help smiling. 

" But I have travelled a good deal in 
Germany," I said, " and I have never any- 



where found the people so stupid aod 
stolid and ungenial as here." 

♦'Perhaps not," he said. "Still there 
are many places like this, only naturally 
they are not the places strangers visit. It 
is never so bad where there are a few 
country houses near, for nowadays it must 
be allowed it is seldom but that the gentry 
take some interest in the people." 

'* It is a pity no rich man takes a fancy 
to Silberbach," 1 said. 

** That day will never come. The best 
thin^ would be for a railway to be cut 
through the place, but that too is not 

Then the old postmaster turned into 
his garden, inviting us civilly to wait there 
or in the office if we preferred. But we 
liked better to stay outside, for just above 
the post-house there was a rather tempt- 
ing little wood, much prettier than any- 
thing to be seen on the other side of the 
village. And Nora and I sat there quietly 
on the stumps of some old trees, while 
Reggie found a pleasing distraction in 
alternately chasing and making friends 
with a party of ducks, which for reasons 
best known to themselves had deserted 
their native element and come for a stroll 
in the woods. 

From where we sat we looked down on 
our late habitation; we could almost dis- 
tinguish the landlord's slouching figure 
and poor Lieschen with a pail of water 
slung at each side as she came in from 
the well. 

•* What a life ! " I could not help saying. 
" Day after day nothing but work. I sup- 
pose it is not to be wondered at if they 
grow dull and stolid, poor things." Then 
my thoughts reverted to what up here in 
the sunshine and the fresh morning air 
and with the pleasant excitement of going 
away I had a little forgotten — the strange 
experience of the evening before. It was 
difficult for me now to realize that 1 had 
been so affected by it. I felt no'u/ as if 1 
wished I could see the poor ghost for my- 
self, and learn if there was aught we could 
do to serve or satisfy him. For in the 
old orthodox ghost-stories there is always 
some reason for these eerie wanderers 
returning to the world they have left. But 
when I turned to Nora and saw her dear 
little face still white and drawn, and with 
an expression half subdued, half startled, 
that it had never worn before, I felt thank- 
ful that the unbidden visitor had attempted 
no communication. 

" It might have sent her out of her 
mind," I thought. •• Why, if he had any- 
thing to say, did he appear to her, poor 

child, and not to me ? — though after all I 
am not at all sure that /should not go out 
of my mind in such a case." 

Before long the post-horn made itself 
heard in the distance ; we hurried down, 
our hearts beating with the fear of possible 
disappointment. 1 1 was all right, however, 
there were no passengers, and noddioji; 
adieu to our old friend we joyfully mounted 
into our places and were bowled away to 

There and at other spots in its prettv 
neighborhood we spent pleasantly enougn 
two or three weeks. Nora by degrees re- 
covered her roses and her good spirits. 
Still, her strange experience left its mark 
on her. She was never again quite the 
merry, thoughtless, utterly fearless child 
she had been. I tried, however, to take 
the good with the ill, remembering that 
thorough-going childhood cannot last for- 
ever, that the shock possibly helped to 
soften and modify a nature that might 
have been too daring for perfect womanli- 
ness — still more, wanting perhaps in ten- 
derness and sympathy for the weaknesses 
and tremors of feebler temperaments. 

At Kronberg, on our return, we found 
that Herr von Walden was off on a tour 
to the Italian lakes, Lutz and youog 
Trachenfels had returned to their studies 
at Heidelberg, George Norman had gone 
home to England. All the members of 
our little party were dispersed, except 
Frau von Walden. 

To her and to Ottilia I told the story, 
sitting together one afternoon over our 
coffee, when Nora was not with us. It 
impressed them both. Ottilia could not 
resist an ** I told you so." 

" I knew, I felt," she said, " that some- 
thing disagreeable would happen to you 
there. I never will forget," she went on 
naively, *'the dreary, dismal impression 
the place left on me the only time I was 
there — pouring rain and universal gloom 
and discomfort. We had to wait there a 
few hours to get one of the horses shod, 
once when I was driving with my father 
from Seeberg to Marsfeldt." 

Frau von Walden and I could not help 
smiling at her. Still there was no smiling 
at my story, though both agreed that, 
viewed in the light of unexaggerated com- 
mon sense, it was most improbable that 
there was any tragedy mixed up with the 
disappearance of the young man we had 
heard of at Gruenstein. 

**And indeed why we should speak of 
his disappearance I don't know," said 
Frau von Walden. ** He did not write to 
send the order be had spoken of — that 



was all. No doubt he is very happy at 
his owD home. When you are back ia 
England, my dear, you must try to find 
him out — perhaps by means of the cup. 
And then when Nora sees him, and finds 
he is not at all like the ghost, it will make 
her the more ready to think it was really 
only some very strange^ I must admit, 
kind of optical delusion." 

" But Nora has never heard the Gruen- 
stein story, and is not to hear it," said 

** And England is a wide place, small as 
it is in one sense," I said. " Still, if I did 
come across the young man, I half think I 
would tell Nora the whole, and by show- 
ing her how my imagination had dressed 
it up, I think I could perhaps lessen the 
effect on her of what she thought she 
saw. It would prove to her better than 
anything the tricks that fancy may play 

"And, in the mean time, if you take my 
advice, you will allude to it as little as 
possible," said practical Ottilia. " Don't 
utm to avoid the subject, but manage to 
do so in reality." 

••Shall you order the tea service?" 
asked Frau von Walden. 

** 1 hardly think so. I am out of con- 
ceit of it somehow," I said. '* And it 
might remind Nora of the blue paper par- 
cel. I think I shall give the cup and 
saucer to my sister." 

And on my return to England I did so. 

Two years later. A very different 
scene from quaint old Kronberg, or still 
more from the dreary Katze at Silber 
bach. We are in England now, though 
not at our own home. We are staying, 
my children and I — two older girls than 
little Nora, and Nora herself, though 
hardly now to be described as ** little " — 
with my sister. Reggie is there too, but 
natoraliy not much heard of, for it is the 
saromer holidays, and the weather is de- 
lightful. It is August again — a typical 
August afternoon — though a trifle too 
hot perhaps for some people. 

"This time two years ago, mamma," 
said Margaret, my eldest girl, "you were 
Id Germany with Nora and Reggie. What 
a loDg summer that seemed! It is so 
aoch nicer to be all together." 

'*I should like to go to Kronberg and 
2II those queer places," said Lily, the sec- 
ond girl; *' especially to the place where 
Nora saw the ghost." 

**! am quite sure you would not wish 
to x/riy there," I replied. "It is curious 
that you should speak of it just now. 

I was thinking of it this morning. It 
was just two years yesterday that it hap- 

We were sitting at afternoon tea on the 
lawn outside the drawing-room window — 
my sister, her husband, Margaret, Lily, 
and L Nora was with the schoolroom 
party inside. 

" How queer ! " said Lily. 

" You don't think Nora has thought of 
it?" I asked. 

"Oh, no — I am sure she hasn't," said 
Margaret. " I think it has grown vague 
to her now." 

Just then a servant came out of the 
house, and said something to my brother- 
in-law. He got up at once. 

"It is Mr. Grenfell," he said to his 
wife, "and a friend with him. Shall I 
bring them out here ? " 

**Yes, it would really be a pity to go 
into the house again — it is so nice out 
here," she replied. And her husband 
went to meet his guests. 

He appeared again in a minute or two, 
stepping out through the low window of 
the drawing-room, accompanied by the 
two gentlemen. 

Mr. Grenfell was a young man living in 
the neighborhood whom we had known 
from his boyhood ; the stranger he intro- 
duced to us as Sir Robert Masters. He 
was a middle-aged man, with a quiet, gen- 
tle bearing and expression. 

"You will have some tea?" said my 
sister, after the first few words of greeting 
had passed. Mr. Grenfell declined. His 
friend accepted. 

" Go into the drawing-room, Lily, please, 
and ring for a cup and saucer," said her 
aunt, noting the deficiency. ** There was 
an extra one, but some one has poured 
milk into the saucer. It surely can't have 
been you, Mark, for Tiny ? " she went on, 
turning to her husband. "You shouldn't 
let a dog drink out of anything we drink 
out of ourselves." 

My brother-in-law looked rather comi- 
cally penitent ; he did not attempt to deny 
the charge. 

" Only, my dear, you must allow," he 
pleaded, "that we do not drink our tea 
out of the saucers. ^^ 

On what trifling links hang sometimes 
important results ! Had it not been for 
Mark's transgressing in the matter of 
Tiny's milk we should never have learnt 
the circumstances which give to this sim- 
ple relation of facts — valueless in itself 
— such interest, speculative and sugges- 
tive only, I am aware, as it may be found 
to possess. 



Lily, io the mean time, had disappeared. 
But more quickly than it would have 
taken her to ring the bell, and await the 
servant's response to tlie summons, she 
was back a^^ain, carrying something care- 
fully in her hand. 

** Aunt,*' she said, **is it not a good 
idea ? As you have a teaspoon — I don't 
suppose Tiny used the spoon, did he ? — I 
thought, instead of ringing for another, I 
would bring out the ghost-cup for Sir 
Robert. It is only fair to use it for once, 
poor thing, and just as we have been 
speaking about it. Oh, I assure you it is 
not dusty,'* as my sister regarded it dubi- 
ously. ** It was inside the cabinet." 

''Still, all the same, a little hot water 
will do it no harm," said her aunt — ** pro- 
vided, that is to say, that Sir Robert has 
no objection to drink out of a cup with 
such a name attached to it ?" 

•* On the contrary," replied he, " I shall 
think it an honor. But you will, I trust, 
explain the meaning of the name to me? 
It puzzles me more than if it were a piece 
of ancient china — a great-grealgrand- 
mother*s cup, for instance. For I see it 
is not old, though it is very pretty, and, I 
suppose, uncommon ? " 

There was a slight tone of hesitation 
about the last word which struck me. 

'* I have no doubt my sister will be 
ready to tell you all there is to tell. It 
was she who gave me the cup," replied 
the lady of the house. 

Then Sir Robert turned to me. Look- 
ing at him full in the face I saw that there 
was a thoughtful, far-seeing look in his 
eyes, which redeemed his whole appear* 
ance from the somewhat commonplace 
gentlemanlikeness which was all I had 
before observed about him. 

'* I am greatly interested in these sub- 
jects," he said. •* It would be very kind 
of you to tell me the whole." 

I did so, more rapidly and succinctly 
of course than I have done here. It is 
not easy to play the part of narrator, with 
five or six pairs of eyes fixed upon you, 
more especially when the owners of sev- 
eral of them have heard the story a good 
many times before, and are quick to ob- 
serve the slightest discrepancy, however 
unintentional. "There is, you see, very 
little to tell," I said in conclusion, **only 
there is always a certain amount of im- 
pressiveness about any experience of the 
kind when related at lirst hand." 

" Undoubtedly so," Sir Robert replied. 
** Thank you very much indeed for telling 
it me." 

He spoke with perfect courtesy, but 

with a slight absence of manner, his eyes 
fixed rather dreamily on the cup in his 
hand. He seemed as if trying to recall 
or recollect something. 

** There should be a sequel to that 
story," said Mr. Grenfell. 

** That's what I say,*' said Margaret 
eagerly. *'It will be too stupid if we 
never hear any more. But that is always 
the way with modern ghost stories — there 
is no sense or meaning io them. The 
ghosts appear to people who never knew 
them, who take no interest in theoi, as it 
were, and then thev have nothing to say 
— there is no dinoument^ it is all purpose- 

Sir Robert looked at her thoughtfully. 

** There is a good deal in what you say,** 
he replied. " But I think there is a good 
deal also to be deduced from the very fact 
you speak of, for it is a fact. I believe 
what you call the meaninglessness and pur- 
poselessness — the arbitrariness, one may 
say, of modern experiences of the kind 
are the surest proofs of their authenticity. 
Long ago people mixed up fact and fic- 
tion, their imaginations ran riot, and on 
some very slight foundation — often, no 
doubt genuine, though slight — they built 
up a very complete and thrilling ghost 
story. Nowadays we consider and phil- 
osophize, we want to get to the root and 
reason of things, and we are more careful 
to beware of exaggeration. The result is 
that the only genuine ghosts are most 
unsatisfactory beings ; they appear with- 
out purpose, and seem to be what, in fact, 
I believe they almost always are, irrespon- 
sible, purposeless will-o'-the-wisps. But 
from these I would separate the class of 
ghost stories the best attested and most 
impressive — those that have to do with 
the moment of death ; any vision that ap- 
pears just at or about that time h^s gener* 
ally more meaning in it, 1 think you will 
find. Such ghosts appear for a reason, if 
no other than that of intense affection, 
which draws them near those from whom 
they are to be separated." 

We listened attentively to this long 
explanation, though by no means fully 
understanding it. 

" I have often heard," I said, *♦ that the 
class of ghost stories you speak of are the 
only thoroughly authenticated ones, and 1 
think one is naturally more inclined to 
believe in them than in any others. But 
1 confess I do not in the least understand 
what you mean by speaking of ^///rr ghosts 
as will-o*-the-wisps. You don't mean that 
though at the moment of death there is 
a real being — the soul, in fact, as dis- 



tinct from the body, in which all but 
materialists believe — that this has no 
permanent existence, but melts away by 
de£;rees till it becomes an irresponsible, 
purposeless nothin<^ — a will-o'-the-wisp, 
in fact ? I think 1 heard of some theory 
of the kind lately in a French book, but it 
shocked and repelled me so that I tried 
to forget it. Just as well, better^ believe 
that we are nothing but our bodies, and 
that all is over when we die. Surely you 
don't mean what I say ? '' 

"God, forbid," said Sir Robert, with a 
fervency which startled while it reassured 
me. *Mt is my profound belief that not 
only we are something more than our 
bodies, but that our bodies are the merest 
outer dress of our real selves. It is also 
my profound belief that at death we — the 
real we — either enter at once into a state 
of rest temporarily, or, in some cases — 
for I do not believe in any cut-and-dry 
rule independently of individual consid- 
erations — are privileged at once to enter 
upon a sphere of nobler and purer labor," 
and here the speaker's eyes glowed with 
a light that was not of this world. " Is 
it then the least probable, is it not alto- 
gether discordant with our common sense, 
— a divine gift which we may employ 
fearlessly — to suppose that these real 
selves, freed from the weight of their 
discarded garments, would leave either 
their blissful repose, or^ still less, their 
new activities, to come back to wander 
about, purposelessly and aimlessly in this 
world, at best only perplexing and alarm- 
ing such as may perceive them ? Is it not 
contrary to all we tind of the wisdom and 
reasonableness of such laws as we do know 
something about?" 

" I have often thought so," I said, " and 
hitherto this has led me to be very scepti- 
cal about all ghost stories.*' 

**But they are often true — so far as 
they go," he replied. "Our natures are 
much more complex than we ourselves 
noderstand or realize. I cannot now go 
at all thoroughly into the subject, but to 
give you a rough idea of my will-o'-the- 
wisp theory — can you not imagine a sort 
of shadow, or echo of ourselves lingering 
about the scenes we have frequented on 
this earth, which under certain very rare 
conditions — the state of the atmosphere 
among others — may be perceptible to 
those still * clothed upon' with this pres- 
ent body? To attempt a simile, I might 
suggest the perfume that lingers when the 
flowers are thrown away, the smoke that 
gradually dissolves after the lamp is ex- 
tioguished? This is, very, very loosely 

and roughly, the sort of thing I mean by 
my will-o'-the-wisps." 

" I don't like it at all," said Margaret, 
though she smiled a little. " I think I 
should be more frightened if I saw that 
kind of ghost — I mean if I thought it 
that kind — than by a good, honest, old* 
fashioned one, who knew what it was 
about and meant to come." 

*' But you have just said," he objected, 
"that they never do seem to know what 
they are about. Besides, why should you 
be frightened? Our fears, ourselves in 
fact, are the only thing we really need 
be frightened of — our weaknesses and 
ignorances and folly. There was {;reat 
truth in that rather ghastly story of Cal- 
derra's, allegory though it is, about the 
man whose evil genius was himself; have 
you read it?" 

We all shook our heads. 

** It is ignorance that fria;htens us," he 
said. Just then his eyes fell on the table. 
" I cannot get over the impression that I 
have seen that cup — no, not that cup, but 
one just like it — before. Not long ago, 
I fancy," he said. 

" Oh, you must let us know if you find 
out anything," we all exclaimed. 

" I certainly shall do so," he said, and a 
few minutes afterwards he and Mr. Gren- 
fell took their leave. 

I have never seen Sir Robert again. 
Still I have by no means arrived yet at 
the end of my so-called ghost story. 

The cup and saucer were carefully 
washed and replaced in the orlass-doored 
cabinet. The summer gradually waned 
and we all returned to our own home. It 
was at a considerable distance from my 
sister's, and we met each other principally 
in the summer time. So, though I did 
not forget Sir Robert Masters, or his 
somewhat strange conversation, amid the 
crowd of daily interests and pleasures, 
duties and cares, none of the incidents I 
have here recorded were much in my mind, 
and but that I had while still in Germany 
carefully noted the details of all bearing 
directly or indirectly on "Nora's ghost," 
as we had come to call it — though it was 
but rarely alluded to before the child her- 
self — I should not now have been able 
to give them with circumstantiality. 

Fully fifteen months after the visit to 
my sister, during which we had met Sir 
Robert, the whole was suddenly and unex- 
pectedly recalled to my memory. Mark 
and Nora the elder, my sister, that is, 
were in their turn staying with us, when 
one morning at breakfast the post brought 
for the latter an unusually bulky and im- 



portaol-looking letter. Sh« opcDcd it, j 

glanced at an outer sheet ioclosing sev- | 
era! pages in adiSereot haadwriiiog, and ' 
passed it on to me. 

" We must read the rest together," she 
said in a low voice, glancing at the chil- | 
dren who were at the table; "how inter-, 
eslinuitwillbe!" , 

The sheet she had handed to me was a 
short note from Mr. Grenfell. It was | 
dated from some place in Norway where 
he was liahing, and from whence he had 
addressed the whole packet to my sister's 
own home, not knowing of her absence. 

"My dear Mrs. Davestry," — it 
began — "The inclosed will have been a 
long lime of reaching its real destination, 
for it is, as you will see, really intended 
for your sister. No doubt It will interest 
fou too, as it has done me, though 1 am 
too mat ler-of -fact and prosaic to enter into 
such things much. Still it is curious. 
Please keep the letter, 1 am sure my 
friend intends you to do so. 
*' Yours very truly, 

" Ralph Grenfeli-" 
The manuscript enclosed was oi course 
from Sir Robert himself. Il was in the 
form of a letter to yoong Grenfell, and 
after explaining that he thought it better 
to write to him, not having my address, 
he plunged into the real object of his 

"You will not," he said, "have forgot- 
ten the incident of the ghost cup in the 
summer of last year, and the curious story 
your friend was so good as to tell us about 

II. You may remember — Mrs. will, 

1 am sure, do so — my strong impression 
that 1 had recently seen one like it. Af- 
ter i left you 1 could not get this feelini; 
out oi my head. It is always irrilatinij 
not to be able, figuratively speaking. 'lo 
lay your hand ' on a recollection, and in 
this instance I really wanted to get the 
clue, as it might lead to some sort of ex- 
planation of the liiile girl's strHoge expe- 
rience. I cudgelled my brains, but all to 
no purpose; 1 went over in memory all 
the houses at which 1 had visited within 
a ceriam space of lime; 1 made lists ol 
all the people I knew interested in china, 
ancient or modern, and likely to possess 
specimens of it. But all in vain. All I 
got for my pains was that people began 
to think I was developing a new crotchet, 
or. as 1 heard one lady say lo another, not 
linuwing 1 was within earshot, >The poor 
man must be a little off his head, though 
till now 1 have always denied il. But the 
revulsion from benevolent schemes to 

china-collectiog shows il only too plainly.' 
So 1 thought [ had better leave oS crius> 
questioning my collecting friends about 
porcelain and faience, German ware ia 
particular. And after a while I thought 
no more about it. Two months ago I had 
occasion to make a journey to the north 
— the same journey and to stay at the ' 
lame house where I have been four or 
live times since I saw the ghosl-cup. 
But this was what happened tiii time. 
There is a junction by which one roust 
pass on this journey. I generally manage 
lo suit my trains so as to avoid waiting 
there, but this is not always feasible. 
This lime f found that an hour at the 
junction was inevitable. There Is a very 
i^ood refreshment room there, kept by 
very civil, decent people. They knew me 
by sight, and after I had had a cup of tea 
L hey proposed to me, as they have done 
before, to wait in their little parlor just 
off the public room- 'It would be qui- 
eter and more comfortable,' said either 
the mother or the daughter who manage 
the concern- 1 thanked them, and setlleil 
myself in an armchair with my book, 
when, looking up — there on the mantel- 
piece stood the fellow cup — the identical 
shape, pattern, and color 1 It all flashed 
into my mind then. 1 had made this 
journey jusi before going into your neigh* 
borhood last year, and had waited in this 
little parlor just as this time. 

■•'Where did you get that cup, Mr*. 
Smith P> I asked. 

" There were two or three rather pretty 
bits of china about. The good woman 
was pleased at my noticing it. 

"'Yes, sir. Isn't it pretty? I've rather 
a fancy for china. That cup was sent me 
by my niece. She said she'd picked it up 
sale I think. It's for> 

;ign, s 


Yes, German. But can't yoa find 
out where your niece got it?' for at the 

word 'sale' my hopes fell. 

" ■ I can ask' her. I shall be wHttDg to 
her this week,' she replied ; and she prom- 
ised to get any information she could for 
me within a fortnight, by which time 1 
expected to pass that way again. I did 
so, and Mrs. Smith proved as good as her 
word. The niece had got the cup from a 
friend of hers, an auctioneer, and he, not 
she, had got it at a sale. But he was 
away from home — she could hear noth- 
ing more at present. She gave his ad- 
dress, however, and assurances that he 
was very good-natured and would gladly 
put the gentleman in the way of gelling 
china like it, if it was to be got. He 



would be home by the middle of the '* I thanked him and left him my address, 
month. It was now the middle of the to which he promised to write. I felt it 
month. The auctioneer's town was not was perhaps better not to pursue my in- 
above a couple of hours off my line. Per- quiries further in person ; it might lead to 
baps you will all laugh at me when I tell annoyance, or possibly to gossip about the 
you that I went those two hours out of dead, which I detest. I jotted down some 
my way, arriving at the town late that particulars for the auctioneer's guidance, 
night and putting up at a queer old inn — and went on my way. That was a fort- 
worth going to see for itself- — on purpose night ago. To-day I have his answer, 
to find the man of the hammer. I found which I transcribe : — 
him. He was very civil, though rather i, » c,t> -vu - » t 1 r u 
mystified. He remembered tbe^cup per- „ ' ,! ^r^''* '"Tk ^^w" °' ''""'"^ 
fectly. but there was no chance of getting f"' ?j' ,,T1 J",Jr "^"'^.u^?. tt.ZT x' 
any like it where it came from. ""^ '» the late Mr. Paulet s service. To 

••'And where was that?' I asked ea. ''**' "'°''*' *''^ **y*' >■•*" ■""*' 'PP'y '<» 
«erlv '*** relations of the family. Young Mr. 

M» 4. » .-I- .„__ —•I— t u Paulet was tall and fair and very nice- 

,C f„^ t,rl?\ . " ^ r^ ^VV. '""king. His mother and he were deeply 
1« thlT,./!ff1h^f' •? P^'i.' »»><:''°d to each other. He travelled a 
r„H iS^vthfn^ !„ fi? f * M " ^T' K°°d d«=»' '"'d used to bring her home lots 
V^JZaV^IAIJ^u » *"'°«' '»^y- Sf pretty things. He meT his death in 
fan.„ ?^r ^ V^ ,. * • , f ^"^ t s"™* P^rt of Germany where there are 

^y?Z V. ; If ''7" 1^ T.*'-'! fores.sffor though it was thought at lirst 
r^f^r'J tnS.^ I„J!)° -7?; M-'^r"'"" he had died of h«rt disease, the doctors 
loi .ht «?, ;. L ^tr . ° ^ " ?"'"• P'°v«d he had been struck by lightning. 

^ for «tt?nJ any ifke it — • ^ " ^"'^ '"* ^^^^ *" '"""^ '■> '^e for~est. and 

.. R J^ I • n ^ ,A I- L the papers on him showed who he was. 

Ki™ I Vi , r.1. ^'k ^yKV?';'"5 The body was sent home to be buried, 

Jl^fJ . Ir "'.• "* • '""•'?'" ' .'""^ "■"« =»» Ihatwas found with it; a knapsack 

l^, .ul °". 'T^ '."^°'TT2 »'"' i« contents, among which was the 

about the person who, I believed bad j bought at the sale." His death was 

^^^ nn^M*^" ' Nothing to do any harm about the middle of August, 18-. 1 shall 

to any one.' 1 sa.d; 'a tnatter of feeling.' ^e glad if this information is of any ser- 

A similar cup had been bought by a per- y\^^i ^ 

son 1 was interested in, and I feared that 
person was dead. "This," continued Sir Robert's own 

**The auctioneer's face cleared. He letter, •* is all 1 have been able to learn. 

fancied he began to understand me. There does not seem to have been the 

•* * I am afraid you are right, sir, if the very slightest suspicion of foul play, nor 
person you mean was young Mr. Paulet, do I think it the least likely there was 
the lady's son. You may have met him any ground for such. Young Paulet 
on his travels? His death was very sad, probably died some way further in the 
I believe. It killed his mother, they say forest than Silberbach, and it is even pos- 
— she never looked up after, and as she sible the surly landlord never heard of it. 
had no near relative to follow her, every- It mi^ht be worth while to inquire about 
thing was sold. I remember I was told it should your friends ever be there again, 
all that at the sale, and it seemed to me If I should be in the neighborhood I cer- 
particularly sad, even though one comes tainly should do so ; the whole coin- 
across many sad things in our line of cidences are very striking." 
business.' Then followed apologies for the length 

••*Doyou remember the particulars of of his letter which he had been betrayed 

Mr. Paulet's death ?' I asked. into by his anxiety to tell all there was to 

**'OnIy that it happened suddenly — tell. In return he asked Mr. Grenfell to 

foroewhere in foreign parts. I did not obtain from me certain dates and particu- 

know the family, till I was asked to take lars, as he wished to note them down. It 

charge at the sale,' he replied. vvas the i8th of August on which ** Nora's 

••♦Could you possibly get any details ghost" had appeared — just two years 

forme? I feel sure it is the same Mr. after the August of the poor young man's 

Paulet,' I said boldly. death 1 

•* The auctioneer considered. There was also a postscript to Sir Rob- 

'•' Perhaps I can. I rather think a for- ert's letter, in which he said, " I think, in 

mer servant of theirs is still in the neigh- Mrs. 's place, I would say nothing to 

borbood,' be replied. the little girl of what we have discovered." 



And I have never done so. 

This is all I have to tell. I offer no 
sup;gesiions, no theories in explanation of 
the facts. Those who, like Sir Robert 
Masters, are able and desirous to treat 
such subjects scientifically or philosophi- 
cally will doubtless form their own. I 
cannot say that I find his theory a per- 
fectly satisfactory one, perhaps I do not 
sufficiently understand it, but I have tried 
to give it in his own words. Should this 
matter-of-fact relation of a curious expe- 
rience meet his eyes, I am sure he will 
forgive my having brought him into it. 
Besides, it is not likely that he would be 
recognized ; men, and women too, of "pe- 
culiar ideas," sincere investigators and 
honest searchers after truth, as well as 
their superficial plagiarists, being by no 
means — to the credit of our age be it said 
— rare in these days. 

Louisa Molesworth. 

From The Leisure Hour. 

Our present purpose is to treat of the 
influence exerted on animals by the music 
of man. How men are affected by the 
singing, croaking, howling, and trumpet- 
ing of birds and beasts we all know; let 
us see how they get on as listeners to our 
performances. It is a curious subject, 
lor our music produces on animals — 
from the elephant to the spider — effects 
even more singular than it exerts on the 
human race. 

A French writer points out that of all 
the arts music is the only one which ani- 
mals, fools, and idiots seem able to appre- 
ciate. We never hear of dogs and cats 
amateurs in painting, or of birds putting a 
little of the aesthetic into the architecture 
of their nests. The fact is that music — 
capable though it be of intellectual devel- 
opment — appears to rest on a physical 
basis common to all living creatures. 
" The perception, if not the enjoyment, of 
musical cadences and of rhythm,*' says the 
late Mr. Darwin, '* is probably common to 
all animals, and no doubt depends on the 
common physiological nature of their 
nervous systems." 

The following notes will serve to show 
how extremely likely this is. We shall 
observe how some of these lower creatures 
— just like ourselves — exhibit signs of 
delight on hearing music, whilst others 
are greatly distressed by it; how some 
have an antipathy to particular sounds; 

how some have preferences io music, and 
express these preferences ; how some are 
soothed and others cheered by it; and 
how not a few have marked musical apti- 
tude, and can be trained to comprehend 
and reproduce both melody and rhythm. 

To begin with the dog. Dogs appear 
in very many cases to be painfully affected 
by music. On hearing it they grow rest- 
less, moan piteously, and at last make 
their escape from the spot with every sign 
of distress. Street organ-grinding seems 
highly objectionable to them, and some 
dogs continue to howl all the time the 
instrument is playing. 

There is a well-authenticated case of a 
dog which, having once heard the violin 
played, used to utter the most dismal com- 
plaints whenever he saw any one lay a 
hand on the instrument. He did not even 
wait till the bow had touched the strings. 
Instances have also been recorded of 
dogs trembling at music as if terrified. 

It has occasionally proved fatal to them. 
Dr. Mead tells of a violinist of his ac- 
quaintance who noticed that his dog ex- 
hibited symptoms of great suffering on 
hearing a certain passage. He had the 
cruelty to repeat it over and over again in 
order to study the effect, and in the end 
the poor animal dropped at bis feet and 
''died in the most horrid convulsions." 

Some dogs only give utterance to their 
feelings on hearing particular tones and 
combinations of tones, and they howl with 
pleasure or howl with pain, according as 
these prove agreeable or disagreeable to 
their sensitive ears. Berlioz speaks of a 
dog which howled with delight on hearing 
the major third played on two strings of 
the violin, but was quite indifferent to 
tifths, sixths, and octaves. A dog that 
could recognize filths is mentioned by M. 
Casimir Colomb in his ** La Musique." 

Discords are readily noticed by some 
dogs. Mrs. S. C. Hall, "when residing 
at Old Brompton, possessed an Italian 
greyhound which screamed in apparent 
agony when a jarring combination of 
I notes was produced accidentally or inten- 
I tionally on the piano." 

Other dogs ** have been seen to sit and 
listen to music with great delight, and 
even to go every Sunday to church with 
the obvious purpose (i^) of enjoying the 
solemn and powerful strains of the or- 

** Cats as a rule,*' says Mr. Gordon 
Stables, "do not like music, although if 
brought up in a musical family they learn 
to tolerate it." Mr. J. G. Wood tells of a 
cat which disliked music of all kinds, but 



bore a special antipathy to barreI-ora:ans. 
The same writer mentions an exceptional 
cat of artistic taste which touched with 
her paw the lips of those who whistled a 
tune, as if pleased with the sound. Mr. 
Stables, however, speaking of a similar 
instance, draws a different conclusion, 
and says that pussy no doubt fancied the 
whistler was in some sort of anguish. 

On the musical taste of the rabbit some 
curious particulars were furnished ten or 
twelve years ago by a lady to an Edin- 
burgh periodical. She tells that when the 
harmonium was played upon, her pet rab- 
bit flew frantically at the instrument and 
violently scratched the legs till the player 
paused. If she went to the piano, how- 
ever, and played on that, bunny was as 
frantic with delight as he was before with 
aoger, giving vent to his joy by running 
incessantly round and round the music- 

Rats have an ear for music, and have 
been taught to dance in cadence on a rope 
to the sound of instruments. The fond- 
ness of mice for music is well known ; it 
sometimes amounts to ecstasy, and gives 
rise to frantic action, ending even in 

Horses are certainly musical — a fact 
Lorenzo reminds Jessica of when the mu- 
sicians interrupt them as they sit in the 
moonlight and watch the star-spangled 

jfis, I am never merry when I hqar sweet 

Lor. The reason is your spirits are attentive ; 
For do but note a wild and wanton herd, 
Or race of useful and unhandled colts, 
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing, and neighing 

Which is the hot condition of their blood ; 
If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound. 
Or any air of music touch their ears. 
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand. 
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze, 
By the sweet power of music. 

The horse can distinguish between mu- 
sical notes. ** There was a work-horse of 
my own," says Mr. Stephens, in his 
•* Book of the Farm," " when even at his 
coro would desist eating and listen atten- 
tively, with pricked and moving ears and 
steady eyes, the instant he heard the note 
low G sounded, and would continue to 
listen so long as it was sustained; and 
another that was similarly affected by a 
particularly high note. The recognition 
of the sound of the bugle by a trooper, 
and the excitement occasioned in the 
haoter when the pack give tongue, are 
familiar instances of the power of horses 

to discriminate between different sounds; 
they never mistake one call for another." 

The educated horse of the circus owes 
a great deal to the influence of music ; he 
marches, trots, gallops, advances, retires, 
and even dances to the lively strains of 
the orchestra. He can also be taught to 
perform music on his own account, and to 
beat a kettledrum with his fore feet. 

Recognizing the love of horses for mu- 
sic, a wealthy enthusiast in the latter part 
of the seventeenth century had regular 
concerts provided for the benefit of his 
stud. Jacques Bonnet, when in Holland 
in 1688, visited the stable, and saw there 
the raised orchestra, from which, once a 
week, a selection of favorite airs was 
played to cheer up the spirits of the lis- 
tening animals. 

On sheep and cattle, music, both vocal 
and instrumental, has a highly beneficial 
effect. There is a poetic saying among 
the Arabs that the song of the shepherd 
fattens the sheep more than the richest 
pasture of the plains, and the saying rests 
no doubt on a foundation of fact. Eastern 
shepherds are in the habit of singing and 
piping to quicken the action of the flocks 
under their charge. 

A lamb which had a discriminating ear 
is mentioned by Mr. J. G. Wood. It de- 
lighted in brisk and lively tunes, such as 
are set for polkas and quadrilles, but ab- 
horred all slow and solemn compositions. 
This frivolous lamb " had the deepest de- 
testation for the National Anthem, and 
would set up such a continuous baa-baa 
as soon as its ears were struck with the 
unwelcome sounds, that the musician was 
fain to close the performance, being si- 
lenced by mirth if not by pity." 

When cows are sulky, milkmaids in the 
Highlands of Scotland often sing to them 
to restore them to good humor. 1 n France 
the oxen that work in the flelds are regu- 
larly sung to as an encouragement to ex- 
ertion, and no peasant has the slightest 
doubt but that the animals listen to him 
with pleasure. 

Deer are delighted with the sound of 
music. Playford, in his 'introduction to 
Music," says, ** Myself, as I travelled some 
years since near Royston, met a herd of 
stags, about twenty, upon the road, fol- 
lowing a bagpipe and violin. When the 
music played they went forward, when it 
ceased they all stood still, and in this 
manner they were brought up out of York- 
shire to Hampton Court. 

Even lions and bears come under the 
charm. Sir John Hawkins, in his " His- 
tory of Music," quotes an author who 



speaks of a lion he had seen in London 
that would forsake his food to listen to a 
tune. Bears too have irom the earliest 
times been taught to dance to the sound 
of music. 

Elephants have good ears, and may be 
trained as musical performers. Qnite re- 
cently, a small elephant, with a surprising 
amount of cultivated intelligence, was ex- 
hibited in London. Amongst other feats, 
it played a whole band of music at once : 
there were bells on its head, and it used 
its trunk and fore feet to other instru- 

About the beginning of this century an 
experimental concert was given to the ele- 
phants in the Jardin des Plantes at Paris 
by a number of musicians in the first rank 
in their profession. From the results of 
this performance some interesting conclu- 
sions were drawn. It was observed that 
it was not the rhythm only that acted on 
the elephants, since the same air moved 
them or left them indifferent, according to 
the key in which it was played. It was 
not the key either which alone influenced 
them, for several airs played in the same 
key produced different effects. 

The cheering influence of music is seen 
in the case of camels. During their long 
and painful marches the conductors of 
caravans often comfort their camels by 
playing on instruments. The music has 
such an effect that, however fatigued they 
may be by their heavy loads, the animals 
step out with renewecf vigor. 

Monkeys have a keen ear for rhythm, 
and have been taught to dance to music 
on the tightrope. Bourdelot speaks of a 
monkey, whom all Paris at one time went 
to see, who, dressed as a woman, danced 
a minuet in cadence with his master. 

Seals are very fond of music, and have 
been known to follow a boat for a long 
distance in which some one was playing. 
Their taste in this direction was well 
known to the ancients, and is often taken 
advantage of by hunters at the present 
day. According to some authorities, seal 
shooters should always be accompanied 
by a piper in order to entice the animals 
to destruction, and they assert that the 
seal prefers the sound of the bagpipe to 
that of any other instrument. 

We come now to speak of music in con- 
nection with serpents. Few things are 
more extraordinary than the calming in- 
fluence exerted over the cobra-capello and 
other poisonous snakes by the shrill, mo- 
notonous ditties of the serpent-charmers 
of I ndia. 1 1 has been said that the snakes 
exhibited by the snake-charmers have had 

their fangs extracted, but this is not inva- 
riably the case ; and observations worthy 
of credit have been recorded, not only io 
India but in other parts of the world, of 
serpents, untamed and in possession of 
the most deadly powers, becominjg docile 
and harmless whilst there was music in 
the air. They have even allowed thens- 
selves to be played with, and have nestled 
peaceably for days in the charmer's tur- 

Sir J. G. Tennant, in his ** Natural His- 
tory of Ceylon," mentions an instance, 
about which there can be no doubt, of a 
snake-charmer's music inducing a large 
cobra to leave its hole and perform certain 
antics at the word of command. An- 
other instance may be quoted from Gen- 
eral Campbell's ** Indian Journal." A 
large cobra had been charmed by music 
out of a well in which he had taken up bis 
abode. Having caught him in a horse- 
hair noose they carried him to an opea 
space of ground and there released him. 
" The enraged snake immediately made a 
rush at the bystanders, putting to flight a 
crowd of native servants who had assem- 
bled to witness the sport. The snake- 
charmer, tapping him on the tail with a 
switch, induced him to turn upon himself, 
at the same time sounding his pipe. The 
snake coiled himself up, raised his head, 
expanded his hood, and appeared about 
to strike; but instead of doing so he re- 
mained in the same position, as if fasci- 
nated by the music, darting out his slender, 
forked tongue, and following with bis 
head the motion of the man's knee, which 
he kept moving from side to side, witbia 
a few inches of him, as if tempting him to 
bite. No sooner did the music cease 
than the snake dashed forward with such 
fury that it required great agility on the 
part of the man to avoid him, and imme- 
diately made off as fast as he could go. 
The sound of the pipe, however, invari- 
ably made him stop, and obliged him to 
remain in an erect position as long as the 
man continued to play." 

Certain Indian snakes are called "danc- 
ing snakes," from their delight in music 
and their movements in concert with it. 
They follow with a swaying to and fro of 
their bodies all the undulations of the 
tune, and give evident signs both of pleas- 
ure and pain. 

The lizard seems possessed of a re- 
markable share of musical sensibility. 
When a lizard is warming itself in the 
sun, if singing or instrumental music 
catches its ear it immediately takes vari- 
ous attitudes which testify to the pleasure 



it experieDces. All music does not give 
it equal gratificatioa. M. F^tis ineDtioDS 
a lizard that came out of the hole it occu- 
pied in an old wall as soon as it heard the 
first notes of the adagio in F of Mozart's 
quartet in C. When the music ceased, 
and as soon as there was silence, the lizard 
turned and went slowly back to its home; 
but if the players recommenced the adagio, 
it would stop, listen for an instant to make 
sure that its ears were not deceived, and 
then return to the place at which it stood 
listening before. 

Birds are not only appreciative listeners 
to our artistic music, but within certain 
limits they are very good imitators. Many 
of them, under proper training, readily 
add simple tunes of human origin to their 
own songs of freedom. 

We all know with what delight the 
canary hears the airs that are played to it. 
It comes as near as possible, listens at- 
tentively, and when the tune is over beats 
its wings as a sign of joy, or perhaps in 
token of applause. As its ear and mem- 
ory are both good, it can be taught to 
whistle one or two airs in correct time 
and tune. 

The musical feature that seems to put 
birds most about is a modulation from one 
key into another, unless it comes naturally 
and without effort. Gr^try, "the Moli^re 
of music," as his friends used to call him, 
made this observation with regard to a 
canary which his mother wished to teach 
the air called the ** Marche des Mousque- 
taires." He predicted that the bird would 
learn to sing it till it came to a bar in 
which the key changed, and that beyond 
that bar it never would go; in the end it 
happened just as he said. 

Gr^try was an enthusiast in all odd 
things, and he even set himself to write 
music for canaries, little airs in canon 
which could be taught to several birds. 

Parrots can be taught to pipe or whistle 
tunes, and certainly have considerable 
musical capacity. A performing cockatoo 
is mentioned by Buckland as playing the 
part of a conductor and beating time with 
a drumstick held in its bill. 

A curious anecdote of the effect of music 
on a pigeon is told by William Bingley, 
the author of " Animated Nature," and 
has been often repeated. A young lady 
of his time was a fine performer on the 
harpsichord, and whenever she played the 
song of ** Spera, si," from Handel's opera 
of " Admeto," a pigeon would descend 
from an adjacent dove-house to the win- 
dow-ledge of the room where she sat, and 
listen apparently with the most pleasing 

emotions. Whenever the song was fin- 
ished, it always returned at once to the 
dove-house, and this was the only song of 
which it took the slightest notice. 

The bullfinch can be taught to pipe tunes 
very sweetly. Mr. Darwin, in his ** De- 
scent of Man," mentions the case of a 
bullfinch, one of whose acquirements was 
the piping of a German waltz, and he was 
so good a performer that he cost ten 
guineas. ** When this bird was first in- 
troduced into a room where other birds 
were kept, and he began to sing, all the 
others, consisting of about twenty linnets 
and canaries, ranged themselves on the 
nearest side of their cages and listened 
with the greatest interest to the new per- 

The thrush can imitate very exactly the 
mellow tones of the flute, and has been 
taught to whistle tunes played by its in- 
structor on that instrument. One that 
had mastered **The Bluebells of Scot- 
land " in this way is told about by Mr. J. 
G. Wood. The blackbird, the most docile 
of all the thrushes, has been trained to 
whistle tunes with great spirit and accu- 

These examples of birds as lovers of 
music and as performers must suffice. 
The feathered tribe furnishes few in- 
stances of antipathy to the art ; the owl is 
one of the rare exceptional characters. 
It is said to have an aversion to music, 
and even to die in convulsions should it 
be forced to remain long a listener. 

Insects do not appear to be behind their 
more imposing relations in appreciating 
beauty in sound, and spiders have been 
known to come and range themselves on 
a table as an audience for an instru- 
mentalist. A captain of the regiment of 
Navarre was once confined to the Bastille 
for having spoken too freely to Louvois, 
the French minister. Wearied of impris- 
onment, he begged the governor to allow 
him to send for his lute, and, on his re- 
quest being granted, spent several days 
in fingering the familiar strings. On the 
fourth day he was much surprised to see 
the mice come out of their holes and the 
spiders descend from their webs. These 
animals, it is said, formed a circle round 
him and seemed to listen with great at- 

The officer was so struck with the sight 
that he ceased playing, and whenever he 
did so the spiders and mice retired to 
their respective quarters. On beginning 
again to play, they crept out a second 
time and listened, and every day they in- 
creased in numbers till at last there would 



be upwards of a hundred of these musical 
amateurs collected together. 

As their presence was not at all times 
equally a;s[reeable, the officer got one of 
the gaolers to lend him a cat, which he 
shut up in a cage when he wished to see 
company, and set loose when he preferred 
to be alone. 

Speaking of this well-known anecdote. 
Sir John Hawkins says that he long 
doubted the truth of it, but it was con- 
firmed to him by **a man of merit and 
probity who played upon several instru- 
ments with the utmost excellence.*' This 
person told Sir John that one evening he 
was playing by himself in a house which 
he named. ** He had not played a quar- 
ter of an hour when he saw several spiders 
descend from the ceiling, which came and 
ranged themselves about the table to hear 
him play, at which he was greatly sur- 
prised ; but this did not interrupt him, 
being willing to see the end of so singular 
an occurrence. They remained on the 
table till somebody came to tell him that 
supper was ready; when, having ceased 
to play, he told roe these insects mounted 
to their webs, to which he would suffer no 
injury to be done. It was a diversion 
with which he often entertained himself 
out of curiosity." 

James Mason. 

From The National Review. 

Two years ago, following tardily in the 
track of other nations, the English Parlia- 
ment accorded some slight protection to 
our pre-historic monuments, and, amongst 
them, to that most venerable and interest 
ing pile of grey stones which, for so many 
centuries, has attracted the attention of 
traveller and archaeologist on the open 
downs near Salisbury. 

For much more than a thousand years 
those strange ruins have stood there, and 
for seven hundred years, at least, through 
an infinite variety of human circumstances, 
as the successive phases of feudal and 
modern society unrolled themselves, they 
have been a ceaseless subject of wonder 
— how they came there, who were their 
builders, and what their object. No Ro- 
man, or British, or Saxon writer records 
their history, or makes even passing allu- 
sion to them; and the first who refers to 
them is, I believe, Henry of Huntingdon, 
who lived during the earlier part of the 
twelfth century. He numbers Stonehenge 

among the four great marvels of Britain, 
and describes ** the stones of wondrous size 
which have been built up in the fashioa 
of doorways, one upon the other " — not, 
perhaps, wholly unlike the ancient Colise- 
ums both in Rome and in the provinces, 
the remains of which may be seen to this 
day — and says that none can conceive 
how or for what reason such mighty blocks 
have been raised aloft. A few years 
later Giraldus Cambrensis, perhaps better 
Icnown as Geoffrey of Monmouth — the 
shrewd churchman, the practised politi- 
cian, and the agreeable though fanciful 
story-teller, whom it is still a pleasure to 
read — describes how the "dance of gi- 
ants,'* as he calls this group of mighty 
stones, was, by the arts of the enchanter 
Merlin, transported from Ireland to their 
present site. 

I have often thought of this curious 
passage in the old chronicler; for curious 
it certainly is. The ruins of Stonehenge 
consist of four distinct parts — two outer 
circles and two interior ellipses. The 
exterior circle and the outer ellipse con- 
sist of grey wethers, or sarsen stones, 
brought apparently from a spot some 
twenty miles distant; but the interior 
circle, as well as the inner ellipse, is 
composed of a granite which is to be 
found at the Land's End in Cornwall, and 
in Ireland. But if, indeed, they came 
from Ireland, it is a remarkable confirma- 
tion of the old legend which I have just 
quoted from Geoffrey of Monmouth — 
one of those confirmations which, curi- 
ously and unexpectedly, meet us at every 
turn in the study of ancient things. For 
myself, I believe greatly in local tradi- 
tions; they are often preferable to the 
labored deductions made on purely scien- 
tific grounds, and I have occasionally 
wished that some histories could be re- 
written with reference to local character- 
istics, conditions, and legends; for it is 
certain that truth, though encrusted with 
later additions and inventions, lives in- 
credibly long in the memories and stories 
of a simple people, and is handed dowa 
by word of mouth, from generation to 
generation, with sometimes greater fidel- 
ity than where the printing-press and the 
mechanical appliances of modern society 
exist. Be this as it may, my object \n 
this present paper is to show the truth 
of one old local tradition with regard to 
Stonehenge; and whilst doing this I can- 
not but note another and a not less re- 
markable one connected with the very 
origin of the strange ruin. 

To resume, however, the thread of my 



remarks, — Geoffrey of Monmouth died, 
and time passed on, but the curiosity with 
rej^ard to Stonehenge did not cease. On 
the contrary it grew, and, with the first 
dawn of antiquarian research, Stonehenge 
became an object of extreme interest. 
Several centuries after the two early 
chroniclers come a crowd of greater names 
— some curious, like Fuller and Aubrey; 
some acute and intelligent, like Evelyn 
and Pepys; some poets, like Drayton and 
Sydney; some noble amateurs, like the 
Duke of Buckingham and my own rela- 
tive, Philip, Earl of Pembroke, who dug 
and explored, it must be admitted, in 
the former case, with very questionable 
advantage, as the principal result of the 
duke's labors was the destruction of one 
of the great stones; some royal visitors, 
like James I.; some learned writers, like 
Camden and Hoare and Stukeley and 
loigo Jones. To these famous names 
have succeeded many much nearer our 
own times and generation, who have 
brought to bear on this subject an extraor- 
dinary amount of learning and criticism; 
but neither yet is the controversy ex- 
hausted nor the interest lessened. As of 
those mountains of which there is as much 
below as above the surface of the ground, 
so it may be said of this strange monu- 
ment of bygone ages, that as much proba- 
bly remains to be written as has already 
been said of it. Absolute certainty can- 
not be had ; and, as the world grows older 
and more commonplace, there will always 
bean irresistible attraction to many minds 
to go back to early ages and to attempt to 
lift the veil which hangs over ancient 
races and religions — still more so when 
they are not so ancient but that we rec- 
ognize their affinity to us and to our own 

Nor are there limits to the field within 
which the most imaginative may exercise 
their learning or ingenuity with regard to 
this remarkable pile. Among past con- 
troversialists some have attributed the 
origin of Stonehenge to the British race; 
others to the Romans; others to that in- 
termediate time and people, in the twilight 
of Roman departure and of Saxon inva- 
sioo, when a strange revival of the old 
heathen Druidism and its incorporation 
with Christianity is supposed to have 
taken place ; some even have assigned 
the mysterious building to our Saxon, 
and some, I believe, have been daring 
enough to attempt to connect it with our 
Danish conquerors. And as of the origin 
of Stonehenge, so also of its objects. It 
has been believed to be a monument and 

a place of national sepulture; it has been 
held to be a temple fitted for secret cere- 
monial and bloody rites ; and it has been 
thought to be an** almanac in stone and 
an astronomical calendar." One learned 
treatise, indeed, was written to prove that 
Stonehenge and the surrounding plain 
were a great planisphere, in which the 
barrows and tumuli represented the situa- 
tion, the magnitude, and even the number 
of the fixed stars. Of these, eight hun- 
dred, it was said, may be seen with the 
eye; but it was thought possible to trace 
as many as fifteen hundred, representing 
heavenly bodies which could only be ob* 
served with a telescope, and, if so, indi- 
cating a scientific knowledge which we 
are in the habit of supposing to belong to 
later times alone. 

It is not my purpose here, even if I 
could pretend to the knowledge, to dis- 
cuss these questions, however interest- 
ing; the scope and object of this paper 
are much simpler. I think it may possi- 
bly be of interest to recall very briefly, by 
the aid of an old memorandum on which I 
recently alighted, the details of a visit 
which I paid to Stonehenge many years 
ago in this month of June, in the company 
of Mr. H. Long — a relation — and one of 
the most gifted and accomplished com- 
panions whom it could be the good for- 
tune of a young man to know. Within 
the once sacred enclosure of that weird 
ruin we watched together during a long 
summer night for the purpose of verifying 
one of those local traditions to which I 
have already alluded. 

For this purpose I need not enter into 
any minute account of Stonehenge: it is 
enough to say that it consists of grey and 
weather-beaten stones, in which may be 
still traced the outlines of the ancient cir- 
cles and ellipses which I have described ; 
of a large block which has been generally 
thought to be an altar, or sacrificial stone, 
facing an opening to the east-north-east; 
and of a stone outside and beyond that 
opening, which is commonly known as 
the Friar's Heel, and which has been 
held to be a gnomon or index. Mr. H. 
Long, in an interesting volume which he 
published on the western geography of 
ancient Europe, shall tell the remainder 
of the story. ** I was informed," he says, 
" on the spot that the portal of the main 
entrance faced immediately to the rising 
sun at the summer solstice . . . and from 
the stone which is called the altar the 
sun, at the OtpivaX uvaToTuai — a great epoch 
with the ancients, as well as a great geo- 
graphical point — is seen to rise directly 



over another stone which is called the in- 

It was after reading this, at a time when 
I had more leisure than now for such in- 
quiries, that, happening to meet Mr. H. 
Lons:, I mentioned to him my wish to 
verify the truth of the local tradition which 
he had recorded in the passage just 
quoted. He, on his side, was no less in- 
terested in determining the fact, and on 
the 2ist June, i860 — now, alas! nearly 
twenty-five years ago — we kept our vigil 
within the ruins of Stonehenge. 

I well remember the circumstances and 
look of the night. For several weeks the 
weather had been wet ; but the sky was 
now clear and star-lit, and a light, cold 
breeze sighed through the clump of Scotch 
firs and across the desolate mounds scat- 
tered over the plain, as-we made our way to 
the weird group of gigantic ruins, which, 
seen through the glimmer of early twi- 
light, lost none of their size or proportion. 

We stood by the altar stone — the scene 
it may be of many bloody rites — and took 
the bearings of the place with a pocket 
compass, having a clear view towards the 
north-east through the great portal with 
the index stone in the centre of the open- 
ing; and, whilst impressed with all the 
solemnity and desolation of the scene, 
we watched for the rising of the sun. 
Strangely enough, a crow of more than 
normal size — oioi vOv xupoKe^ eiaiv — and of 
very prophetic aspect, perched on the in- 
dex stone ; and, presso ter ^utture^ uttered 
three distinct and, I doubt not, encourag- 
inir Ciiws, though unfortunately we had no at hand to interpret their mean- 
ing. I remember well, whilst thus en- 
gaged in the contemplation of the pictur- 
esque scene, how much I was struck by 
the singular adaptation of the temple — 
supposing it to be perfect — to the prac- 
tice of mystical or secret rites. Conceal 
ment on the part of the priests was easy, 
as the only opening through which the 
shrine and the altar were visible was the 
great portal fronting the east, where the 
ground slopes gradually downward; and 
whilst the crowd of uninitiated worship- 
pers assembled on that broad slope might 
see the grim altar illuminated by a direct 
flood of light from the rising sun, all else 
to right and left within the sacred enclo- 
sure would be in deep shadow. 

At any time the sight of these stone 
giants, towering up dim and desolate in 
the uncertain shadows of a summer night, 
placed I here by some race that has disap 
pearcd and for objects which are now only 
matter of learned controversy, would have 

been impressive; but as one ran over id 
memory some of the many well-known le- 
gends and stories associated with them — 
and who will say how much truth or false- 
hood they contain? — those dark stones 
seemed to live again. One might almost 
seem to see the grey ruin as it stood io its 
perfect form on that bloody May-day when 
Hengist is said, with his Saxons, to have 
anticipated the treachery of the British 
priests, and to have slain those who in- 
tended to slay him and his followers. The 
fatal beauty of Rowena, the treachery of 
Vortigern, the feast prepared within the 
stone circle, the plot of the fanatical — or 
patriotic — Druids, the Saxon guests with 
their short swords concealed, the sudden 
signal given by their leader, the brief 
struggle, the " priest slain by the altar 
stone" — one in fact, of the most pictur- 
esque incidents in the Saxon conquest of 
England, then so memorable, now so 
nearly forgotten and passed into the realm 
of fable — seemed to rise like a weird pic- 
ture of the past. 

But all this gave place, I well remem- 
ber, to the keen anxiety with which we 
watched for the dawn, which was to de- 
termine whether the bright orb — wor- 
shipped by so many races in so many 
places, anci perhaps in those very ruins — 
would, or would not, rise in accordance 
witii the tradition, on this day of all the 
year, exactly over the index stone. 

At about 4 A.M., just before the expected 
time, all was favorable. The sky was 
clear ; bright, fleecy clouds caught the re- 
flection of the coming dawn, and a rosy 
streak of light played round the top of the 
stone which we were watching so ear- 
nestly. But even as we watched, there 
rose a heavy bank of leaden cloud and 
vapor, which darkened our hopes not less 
than the region of the sky over which it 
spread. It was the first observation of 
the kind that I had ever made, and I can 
well recall the disappointment and morti- 
fication with which I saw the grey film 
gradually obscuring that part of the heavea 
where Phcebus^s glorious face should have 
been. Had 1 been older I should proba- 
bly have accepted the reverse with greater 
equanimity; but fortune, kinder than my 
impatience deserved, had no real disap- 
pointment in store for us; for almost as 
quickly as the clouds had arisen they 
rolled away, and the sun shone out in all 
his brightness and in full and certain rela- 
tion to the index stone, exactly as we had 
hoped and expected. The local tradition 
was veritied, and the object of our quest 



Since then others have, I believe, 
watched during the summer solstice in 
the same place and with similar results. 
I, too, have often witnessed the sun rise 
upon many strange and historical scenes, 
and amid many ruins of ancient and mem- 
orable story ; but never have I seen the 
dawn break upon a ghostlier or more ven- 
erable pile, and never have I watched for 
it with greater interest or hailed its com- 
ing with greater pleasure. 


From All The Year Round 

All recognize taxes to be indispensa- 
ble to our comfort and safety as citizens, 
but we do not love them; we admit that 
the tax-gatherer is a necessary evil, but 
most of us would rather have his room 
than his company. Would taxes be any 
more pleasant or easier to pay if we called 
them benefactions, or subscriptions, or 
contributions ? It is more than doubtful ; 
bat, at the same time, let it not be forgot* 
ten that it has been contended that the 
severance of the American colonies from 
the mother country would never have oc- 
curred, had our statesmen been diplomatic 
enough to style the obnoxious dues ** reg- 
ulations,*' instead of taxation. 

There is, no doubt, a good deal in a 
name, and if, as Wood says, Eastern po- 
tentates prefer to call the tolls which have 
to be paid to the Arab chiefs by the bands 
of pilgrims to Mecca, backsheesh, or gra- 
tuities, one can understand their feeling, 
notwithstanding that the said Arab chiefs 
call the same tolls taxes. One of the 
conditions upon which Louis the Eleventh 
of France bought peace from England 
was the payment of fifty thousand crowns 
aooually to the English king, and certain 
aooual sums to the English ministers. 
Eoj^lish historians call these payments 
tributes, but French historians call them 
gifts. Our own kings, too, had an inno- 
cent belief that a thing hateful in itself 
night be made less hateful by its name, 
SLod therefore, in kindly consideration for 
the feelings of their subjects, they often 
described taxes as ** benevolences*' and 
"loans." Charles the First tried hard to 
werk the ** benevolence " trick, but it had 
been pretty well played out by his time. 

We have no record of taxation among 
the ancient Britons, but it may be assumed 
that when the chiefs were in need of any- 
thing they simply demanded it from their 

followers, although they probably pre- 
ferred to steal it from some rival chief or 
clan. But when the Romans came, taxes 
were levied to provide for the expenses 
of the conquered province. And even in 
these early days we find that the taxes 
were paid with grumbling and collected 
with difHculty. 

In the Anglo-Saxon period we do not 
find much about regular taxes until the 
several kingdoms merged into one, and 
then we read that the king received a 
contribution from every shire, which was 
called the ftorum fultum. Afterwards, 
in war times, taxes were imposed (in the 
form of gross-levies) by the Witenagemot 
upon the shires, which had to contribute 
ships and equipments in proportion to 
their populations. This was the famous 
Shipgeld. Still later, when money was 
needed to buy ofiE the Danish invaders, 
another tax called the Danegeld was im- 
posed. This was levied upon the land, 
and ranged from one shilling to four 
shillings per hide, or one hundred and 
twenty acres. This tax yielded ten thou- 
sand pounds in 991 ; twenty-four thou- 
sand pounds in 1002; thirty-six thousand 
pounds in 1007; forty-eight thousand 
pounds in 1012; and seventy-two thou- 
sand pounds in 1018. Long after the fear 
of the Danes disappeared this tax was 
retained, but it was very unpopular, and 
led to a revolt in Worcestershire in 1041, 
and the subsequent spoliation of the city 
of Worcester by the king's orders. Ed- 
ward the Confessor repealed this tax, but 
it was instituted again by the Norman 
kings. Another tax invented by the An- 
glo-Saxons and revived by the Normans, 
was the fumage, or smoke tax. It was 
levied upon every hearth in the country, 
with the exception of the poor. 

The exchequer rolls give some curious 
instances of the operation of the feudal 
law. One Walter de Cancey paid fifteen 
pounds for the privilege of marrying when 
and whom he pleased. A certain lady of 
Ipswich paid four pounds and a silver 
mark for permission to marry " her own 
love,*' and several other ladies paid for 
the same privilege. One Geoffrey de 
Mandevill paid the king twenty thousand 
marks for permission to marry Isabell, 
Countess of Gloucester. 

Besides the right to all waifs and strays, 
the flotsam and jetsam of the coasts, treas- 
ure-trove, and the profits in return for the 
custody of the lands of imbeciles, the king 
received fees for granting charters to 
towns and guilds, and liberty to form 
markets, fairs, parks, and monopolies. 



Sometimes these fees or fines were paid 
in money, as when the Londoners paid 
Kin<; Stephen a hundred silver marks for 
leave to choose their own sheriffs. York 
paid Henry the Third two hundred marks 
for bur<j;ess liberties; the vintners of 
Hereford paid forty shillings for permis- 
sion **to sell a sestertium of wine for ten- 
pence for the space of a year." 

The Plantaii^enets instituted some curi- 
ous taxes. One, in 1377, agreed to by 
Parliament, was a tax of " fourpence to be 
taken from the goods of each person in 
the kingdom, men and women, over the 
age of fourteen years, except only beg- 
gars.*' This was the "tallage of groats," 
and it yielded twenty-two thousand six 
hundred and seven pounds two shillings 
and eightpence, from one million three 
hundred and seventy-six thousand four 
hundred and forty-two lay persons, the 
return not including Chester and Durham, 
which kept separate accounts. This tal- 
lage of groats was afterwards superseded 
by a poll tax, graduated according to ranks 
and means. Thus dukes were taxed ten 
marks each ; earls and countesses, six 
marks; barons, bannerets, and knights, 
and their widows, three marks; knights- 
bachelors and esquires, a mark and a half ; 
small esquires and merchants, a mark; 
and esquires without land and in profes- 
sional service, three shillings and four- 
pence. Judges were taxed at five pounds 
each ; sergeants-at-law, two pounds; lower 
legal dignitaries, one pound ; and attor- 
neys, six shillings and eightpence. The 
regulations for other ranks are interesting. 
The mayor of London was ranked as an 
earl, and had to pay accordingly. A Lon- 
don alderman had to pay two pounds, like 
a baron, and provincial mayors of large 
towns were rated in the same category. 
Small mayors ranged from one pound 
down to six shillings and eightpence. 

This tax did not yield as much as was 
expected, and in 1380 the government was 
80 " hard up *' that the army was over a 
year in arrears of pay, the king was over 
head and ears in debt, and the crown 
jewels were in pawn. Therefore, another 
tax was levied of " three groats from every 
lay person in the kingdom, male or female, 
of whatever estate or condition in life." 
This tax was ordered with the provision 
that the strong should help the weak, but 
no man of means was to pay more than 
sixty groats, or twenty shillings, and no 
one lests than twopence. This was what 
led to the peasant insurrection, in which 
Wat Tyler figured. 

The Plantagenets also raised money on 

I the " benevolence " principle — literally 
' appeals to the charity of their subjects. 
Edward the Fourth, being very handsome, 
was remarkably successful at this method 
of extortion, particularly with the fair sex. 
It is related that one rich widow, capti- 
vated by his good looks, tabled twenty 
pounds with a good grace. The king was 
so pleased that he kissed her, and the 
lady immediately doubled her benevo- 
lence, " because she esteemed the kiss of 
a king so precious a jewel.*' Queen Eliz- 
abeth also raised a great deal of money 
by appeals to the " benevolence *' of her 
subjects. It is related that on one occa- 
sion the mayor of Coventry brought her 
a handsome, well-filled purse, when the 
queen remarked : " I have few such gifts, 
Mr. Mayor; it is a hundred pounds id 
gold." "Please your Grace," said the 
mayor, " it is a great deal more we give 
you." " What is that ? " said the queen. 
" It is the hearts of your loving subjects," 
replied the mayor. To which the queen 
rejoined : " We thank you, Mr. Mayor. 
That is a great deal more indeed." 

We can only briefly indicate curiosities 
of taxation under the Pitt administration, 
some of which survived for a considera- 
ble time. Solicitors, attorneys, and nota- 
ries had to take out licenses, for which 
five pounds was charged for London and 
Edinburgh, three pounds for other parts 
of Great Britain. 

Among other curious taxes of our fiscal 
history was the tax on silver plate. The 
tax on male servants was first imposed in 
1777, and was at the rate of twenty-one 
shillings each servant, but in 1785 Pitt 
arranged a progressive scale by which the 
tax rose in proportion to the number of 
servants kept up to four pounds five shil- 
lings each. A further advance during the 
Peninsular War brought the maximum up 
to nine pounds thirteen shillings each, 
this extreme rate being payable by bach- 
elors who kept eleven servants or more. 

It were too long a story to detail here 
all the experiments which have been made 
in taxing eatables and drinkables, coal 
and timber, bricks and tiles, candles, pa- 
per, bottles, playing-cards and dice, news- 
papers, advertisements, starch, tooth-pow- 
der, hats, gloves, and a host of other 
subjects. In fact, after the great French 
War, there seemed nothing sacred from 
the tax-gatherer's lynx eye. Even plum 
puddings were taxed, and it is said that 
i " the favorite currant dumplings of the 
' lower classes produced two hundred and 
eighty thousand pounds " to the reve- 
nue 1 


Fifth Series 

•ies, ) 
LI. > 

No. 2143. -July 18, 1885, 

iFrom Bennningi 
Vol. CLXVI. 











Wyclif and the Bible, 

Fortune's Wheel. Part VI., 

The Irish Parliament of 1782, 

A House Divided against Itself. 
Mrs. Oliphant. Part XXIV., 

Prince Bismarck as a Diplomatist, 

A Brother ok the Misericordia, . 

The Russian Armament, . 

From "Reminiscences of my Life." 
Marv Howitt, 

Music and Musicians, .... 

Eighth Centenary of Gregory VII., 


, Fortnightly Review^ 
. Blackwooifs MagiizirUf 
. Nineteenth Century^ 



Chambers'* JourTtai, 
Temple Bar^ 
Chambers' Journal^ 
Temple Bar, 

Good IVori/Sf 

Ail The Year Round, . 

Saturday Review^ . 


1 58 


Summer Evening, 


. 130 1 Spring's the Time, 



» o . 





For Eir.HT Dollars, remitted eUrtctiy to th4 Publithersy the Living Acswill be punctually forwaided 
Ibr a yearly^-*" o/t^ostage. 

Kctnitianc^f. should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office raoneynjrder, if possible. If neither 
of these cati be procured, the moneyshould be »ent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register 
iettcrs when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should oe made payable to the order oi 
LlTTKLL & To. 

Single Numbers of The Livimg Agb, 18 oeots. 




Low sinls the sun toward the pearly west, 
Hastingr to bring his long march to an end, 

Upon the pillowy clouds to find a rest, 
Ere to the lower sphere his labors tend ; 

Casting, meanwhile, upon his broad empire 

A bounteous largess of ethereal fire. 

Gently the winds creep o'er the dozing earth. 
As if afraid to break the quiet mood 

"Which gives to passing day so much of worth 
When bashful night is by its sweetness 

And Nature seems most trustfully to lie 

Upon the breast of Love's serenity. 

The foliage takes a fairer, brighter hue. 
The fields appear more greenly velvet- 

The sky's far vista shows a richer blue. 

The fading hills with deeper purple crowned ; 

And every flower of every shade and tone 

Now gemlike sparkles on its vernal throne. 

More fragrant, too, is their respir'd breath 
Than when the midday fires, with thirsty 
Drank at their fount ; escaped from scorching 
Odorous praise Hows from their native lungs 
In grateful waves of incense unto him 
Who built the heavens, yet hears earth's faintest 

The birds are warbling soft, melodious notes, 
As though they sang a requiem for the 

The lowing bass of cattle sluggish floats 
Upon the stilly air, as o'er the bay 

A ship, becalmed, moves placidly along. 

Or from the hills returns the shepherd's song. 

Homeward the rooks in solemn state proceed. 
Their noisy morning caw no longer heard ; 

The cowboy's whistle ripples o'er the mead. 
With pace as idle as his drowsy herd ; 

And distant voices of the children seem 

Like waking echoes of a youthful dream. 

The eager mowers, with protracted toil. 

Still ply their whirring scythes upon the 

Hastening to gather what a generous soil, 
For future need, a fragrant harvest yields ; 

Vet languidly and slow the strokes are made. 

Their strong arras weary of the heavy blade. 

The bees, oppressed b^ labor's sweet reward, 
Now seek again their many-storied hives ; 

While close at hand a chirper in the sward, 
To swell the failing chorus bravely strives ; 

And louder-voiced the corncrake hails the 

Or calls its mate to share in love's delighL 

Feebly the cock's last challenge greets the 
Answered from roost to roost; across the 
The cuckoo's call comes singing full and clear, 

Telling its lonely, undomestic tale ; 
A thousand things innumerous vespers raise 
A joyous anthem of seductive praise. 

Does not the spell, thus working its wide 

On all the creatures of this active world. 
Reach him who rules them with an iron arm. 

Who over all his banner hath unfurled ? 
Is he alone unmoved by that which moves 
Obedient nature in sabbatic grooves ? 

Go forth, vain man, from out the prosy din 
Of narrow streets and busy, selfish marts; 

Go, look abroad, and seek that wealth to win. 
Enriching mind, and elevating hearts; 

Go ! of thy moiling take a little leave. 

To join the worship of the summer's eve. 
Sunday Magazine. JOHN T. BkKK. 


Violets in the hazel copse, 

Bluebells in the dingle ; 
Birds in all the green tree-tops 

Joyous songs commingle. 
Phillis through the flowery waj's 

Strays from dawn tilt gloaming. 
Oh, the happy breezy days ! 

Spring's the time for roaming. 

In the budding of the year. 

In the daisied meadows, 
Where the brooklet ripples clear 

Through the willow shadows, 
Corydon, among his sheep. 

Sees fair Phillis roving. 
Feels a rapture new and deep — 

Spring's the time for loving ! 

Merry moments swiftly pass, 

Corydon and Phillis 
Wand'ring through the dewy grass. 

Through the daffodillies. 
In the woodlands faint and far 

Tender doves are cooing ; 
Flocks and fields forsaken are — 

Spring's the time for wooing ! 

Amber cowslips fresh and sweet, 

As a first love-token, 
Cor)-don at Phillis' feet 

Lays — no word is spoken. 
Oh, yon brooklet ! dance along, 

Whirling, dimpling, spinning; 
Babble out your sunshine song — 

Spring's the time for winning ! 
CasseU*8 Magaxine. M. C. GlLLINGTON. 



From The FortnighUy Review. till his time with almost Undisputed sway. 

WYCLIF Ax\D THE BIBLE. Another point ought to be noticed which 

The attention recently called to the admits of no dispute — the purity of his 

great reformer of the fourteenth century ^'^e- His worst foes never breathed sus- 

will be legitimately revived by the appear- P'^ion against him upon that score. At a 

ance of the revised edition of the Bible, time when the morals of the clergy were 

It will not therefore be inappropriate to far from correct, he was not only unstained 

endeavor upon this occasion to grasp the ^y reproach, but noted for his austere and 

fundamental elements of his character tameless walk. This high tone of life 

and the guiding principles of his life, as ^^^ '° ^^^ correspondence with his exalt- 

well as to determine the most important «^ conception of the moral character of 

lessons which he left behind him, both Christianity. He felt strongly, too, the 

for his own and succeeding times. Wye- responsibility attaching to his own posi- 

lif's extraordinary abilities were fully ac- ^^^^ ^* * priest. 

knowledged during his lifetime, and have ^y nothing, however, was he in all 

never been disputed. He was not merely probability so much fitted for his work as 

a theologian, but was widely acquainted by the deliberate and exhaustive manner 

with the science of his day. He was «n which he first surveyed his ground, and 

familiar with what had been done in math- then by the coolness, not less than the 

emaiics, chemistry, optics, and natural resoluteness, with which he occupied it. 

history; and the effect was not only to In this respect he differed essentially from 

widen the field of his mental vision, but Luther, and the difference must be kept 

to supply him, in lectures, sermons, and '° view when we weigh the nature of the 

published treatises, with illustrations ''"ults achieved by them. Luther, no 

which lent vivacity to his reasonings, and d<^"t>t, possessed many advantages which 

brought them into closer contact with the ^'^ ^^^t fall to the lot of his predecessor. 

every<lay life of man. In his own more The revival of learning had taken place. 

peculiar field, again, of scholastic disputa- The mind of Europe had been expanded 

tion, he was an unquestioned master, by contact with the treasures of ancient 

Even his bitterest enemies magnified the literature poured into it after the fall of 

extent of his learning, the subtlety of his Constantinople. The laity felt their pow- 

intellect, and the keenness of his insight. «f- Scholasticism had declined, and the 

Professor Shirley ranks him with Duns printing-press had been invented. Yet 

Scoius, Ockham, and Bradwardine,as one ^h« n^^'" difference between the work of 

of the four great schoolmen of the four- ^^^ ^^^ '"^^ ^o" "o^ ^'^ «« these things. 

tcenth century.* He was a diligent stu- ^^ ^'«^* '^^^^^ '° ^^^ "^^^ themselves, and 

dent of the fathers without being a slavish '° ^^^''' Personal experiences. Luther 

follower of their opinions. He thought ^as from the first quick, emotional, pas- 

and spoke for himself. That in doing so sionate. a child of the people, at every 

be labored under the disadvantages of the P^'"^ ^^ ^'^ ^'^« intensely human. Wyclif 

scholastic method, is true. He could not ^'^^ "^^^^ ^^e scholar, the recluse, the 

entirely separate himself from the tradi- speculator, the calm and diligent invesli- 

tions of centuries. Had he broken with g^tor. Not that he wanted passion; but 

these he would not have efifecied what he passion was in him a hidden fire, great in 

did. But it is something to be able to vol""^e» burning clear, while in Luther it 

say of him that, if he still adheres in no ^^s a furnace, bursting forth into great 

small degree to the dry disquisitions, the sheets of flame, and kindling whatever 

trifling distinctions, and the wearisome ^ame into contact with it. Luther's work 

repetitions of the schools, no man did ^«g^" '" ^^'^ struggles of his own soul 

more to introduce a brighter sunshine and "^''^^ s'"» ^"^ '" ^^^ ^^y ^^'' P^''^°'* ^°^ 

a healthier atmosphere into the modes of reconciliation with God; Wyclif's began 

thought and exposition which had ruled '^^•^^•' '" ^^^ '*<^g'°" °^ ^^« intellect, in the 

assertion of the right to think, and in the 

* Fasciculi Zizaniorum, p. H. claim to investigate truth. Above all, 




Luther beheld around him only men the 
victims of superstition, men betrayed in 
the highest of all relations by the paltriest 
and most unsatisfying substitutes for true 
religion, blind guides leading the blind in 
matters of eternal moment, and both fall- 
ing into the pit of spiritual darkness and 
despair. Wyclif, in at least the most ac- 
tive period of his life, beheld around him 
not simply men but fellow-countrymen, 
oppressed by a foreign yoke, and handed 
over to a distant and tyrannous power by 
those who ought to have been the guar- 
dians of their liberties and the protectors 
of their national birthright. It may be 
doubted if the later reformer had much 
of the idea of country in his mind at all. 
Certainly he had no traditions to make 
his soul burn or his eye f^ash when foreign 
hands were laid upon the wealth of his 
native soil, or when efforts were made to 
silence the voice of her people's Parlia- 
ments for the sake of a corrupt court and 
dissolute nobles. The earlier reformer 
had the traditions of a little island where 
the winds had been always free, and where 
the waves, as they dashed upon its rock- 
bound coast, had long been answered by 
a like stirring spirit in its people. Such 
things made a great difference between 
the two reformers, and must be taken into 
account when we think either of their 
personality or of their works. 

In the mean time, however, we have to 
do with Wyclif; and the most interesting 
question that meets us in connection with 
him has reference to the fundamental, the 
guiding, principle of his life and work. 
The natural qualities of his character, ad- 
mirable as they were, were after all no 
more than the formal preparation of the 
man or the instruments he was to use. 
Something more was needed to be his 
real preparation, the determining princi- 
ple of his course of action, the power by 
which the whole machinery of his nature 
was to be put in motion. In this respect 
he has been too often thought of mainly 
as the Englishman; as the patriot inter- 
ested in the liberties of his country; as 
the civil rather than as the religious re- 
former. It is not unnatural that such a 
view should be entertained, for it was in 
this capacity that he made his tirst en 

trance upon public life; and during the 
greater part of his after career be was 
closely associated with all those move- 
ments of his time in which his country 
vindicated her independence of a foreign 
yoke. But when we look more closely 
into the matter, we shall find that reli- 
gious principles and religious aims did far 
more to determine what he was than the 
aspirations of a merely patriotic heart. 
It was these that made him what he 
was. His Christianity was the root of 
his patriotism, not his patriotism the root 
of his Christianity. In his religious and 
Christian convictions, reached and, except 
in the extent of their application, matured 
during the years of his Oxford training 
previous to A.D. 1366, lay the seed of the 
plant that was afterwards to bear so large 
and ripe a crop of fruit. No one will deny 
that that seed was the Scriptures, or that 
from the very beginning of his studies he 
must have been drawn to them, and must 
have found in them both the nourishment 
of his own spiritual life and the treasure 
on which he drew for others. Except on 
this supposition it is impossible to explain 
the singular degree to which he identified 
himself with them, the strength of lan- 
guage with which he recognizes their au- 
thority, the minute acquaintance with 
them which appears in all his writings, or 
the title which he received of the Evan- 
gelical Doctor, which then meant the doc- 
tor devoted to the Scriptures in contrast 
with all other teaching. 

It is not enough, however, to say this. 
The point upon which we desire at pres- 
ent especially to dwell, and in which we 
seem to find a key to Wyclif's life that has 
not yet been used, is, that in his study of 
Scripture he would seem to have come 
powerfully under the influence of the 
writings of St. John. He quotes him often, 
and Dr. Lechler tells us that again and 
again in his '*Trialogus "and other works 
he refers to John i. 3, 4, as if it were the 
germ of all bis views. Strangely enough 
Dr. Lechler thinks that he misunderstood 
the passage, and that the words will not 
bear the rendering that he gave them. la 
both the authorized and revised versions 
the translation, with an unimportant dif- 
ference, is as follows : " And without him 



was not anythiog made tliat hath been 
made. lo him was life, and the life was 
the light of men." Wyclif connects the 
clauses differently, and translates : " And 
without him was not anything made. That 
which hath been made was life in him ; 
and the life was the light of men." 

But Wyclif is right. He has followed 
the early fathers, and has apprehended 
the real meaning of the words. What St. 
John tells us is, that the Eternal Word 
was life, life absolutely, and therefore life 
that could communicate itself; that he 
was the fountain of all life; and that in 
him principally was the life of every crea- 
ture before it was called into existence. 
The teaching will be better understood if 
we compare the words of the Gospel with 
those of the song of the four-and twenty- 
elders in the Apocalypse: "Worthy art 
thou, our Lord and our God, to receive 
the glory and the honor and the power; 
for thou hast created all things, and be- 
cause of thy will they were, and they were 
created." All things w^rg before they 
were created. In other words, it is St. 
John's principle appearing alike in the 
fourth Gospel and in the Apocalypse, that 
in God, and, if in God, therefore also in 
that Word to whom the Father, who hath 
life in himself, gave to have life in himself,* 
there is an eternal pattern of all things 
that are realized on earth. By this pat- 
tern must all things on earth be judged, 
and to it all of them must, as far as possi- 
ble, be conformed. This is the idealism 
of St. John, and Wyclif caught the inspira- 

Here, then, we seem to obtain the key 
to most at least of what Wyclif both was 
and did — to his philosophical system; 
bis work as a reformer of ecclesiastical 
abuses; his views on property, so often 
misunderstood and harshly jud<;ed ; and 
even to his method oi reasoning upon any 
point he had in hand. 

Let us look for a moment at the last 
point first, and the reformer's idealism at 
OQce explains to us why he should always, 
in reasoning, go back to first principles. 
It is often in no small degree burdensome 
to the reader to find the commonest ques- 

• John V. 26. 

tion discussed from the most remote and 
far-drawn considerations as to the nature 
of God and the eternal relations existing 
between him and his creatures. But how 
can Wyclif argue otherwise ? He can only 
deal with existing things by comparing 
them with the pattern in the Mount. He 
must reach that "one first" which is the 
measure of all others.* Let us turn to 
his philosophy. It is well known that he 
was a Realist, and this harmonizes ex- 
actly with what has been said, for the 
Realists, as distinguished from the Nom- 
inalists, believed that generals or univer- 
sal have an existence prior to, and inde- 
pendent of, the individual objects to which 
they relate. In the words of the scholas- 
tic philosophy they were universalia ante 

But, above all, it was this same lofty 
idealism that lay at the bottom of Wyclif's 
career as a reformer of ecclesiastical 
abuses. His conception of the Church of 
Christ, gathered from Scripture, was es- 
sentially ideal. In almost every important 
particular it was directly the opposite of 
what he beheld around him. An outward 
and carnal institution had taken the place 
of the spiritual kingdom which Christ had 
founded. Even within this institution the 
clergy alone were regarded as the Church, 
the possessors of all her power, and the 
dispensers of all her privileges. The 
people were entirely in their hands, with 
no independent standing, no right of free 
access to the Father of their spirits, and 
no responsibility except that of obedience 
to ecclesiastical superiors who, even in 
the most favorable circumstances, treated 
them as children. Let us not blame the 
spiritual rulers of that day too much, as if 
nothing of the kind could occur again. 
The evil sprang from deeper than Ro- 
manist roots, from roots which will prob- 
ably never be eradicated while human 
nature is what it is. Nay, it is often the 
ablest and best men who are in danger of 
being the first to yield lo it. Their own 
motives are pure: they know how they 
will use the influence they may acquire. 

• The following words are quoted by Dr. Lcchler 
from a Vienna MS. : "In omni geuere est unum pri- 
mum quod est metrum ct mensura omnium aliorum," 
vol. i., p. 472. note i. 



They have such a vision of the glory of ! 
their beneficent work that they cannot ' 
believe in the existence of worldly eccle- 
siastics who will not be li<;htened and 
elevated by the same glory. Would that 
experience confirmed the justness of their 
expectation ! There can be no nobler 
thought than that of upholding, vindicat- 
ing, strengthening the Church of Christ, 
when the true idea of that Church is pre- 
served — the idea of service, toil, suffer- 
ing for the sake of Ckrist*s body and of 
mankind. There can be none more dis- 
astrous when there is substituted for this 
the thought of a great hierarchy with 
power, riches, splendor, and worldly pomp. 
Men say, you gain the world in this way : 
we say, no, you lose the Church. Thus 
VVyclif felt, and far more interesting, ac- 
cordingly, in this point of view than any, 
even the most memorable, of his overt 
acts, is the principle upon which he pro- 
ceeded. That principle reminds us again 
of the writings of the beloved disciple, 
and confirms what has been said as to the 
Johannine idealism which lay at the bot- 
tom of all the reformer's views and move- 
ments. VVyclif drew a distinction between 
the Church and the elect within the 
Church. He recognized the fact that 
false members must be included in the 
former. He proceeded upon the princi- 
ples involved in our Lord*s own parable of 
the vine, when, saying of himself, I am 
the true vine, Jesus immediately spoke, 
not only of fruit-bearing branches, but of j 
branches that bear no fruit, that must be | 
taken away, **and men gather them and | 
cast them into the fire and they are 
burned." Siill, these branches were a 
part of the vine, a part of the body of 
Christ, a part of that visible Church which, 
though by reason of their presence im- 
perfect, was yet struggling towards per- 
fection. The elect, however, within the 
outward Church were the true kernel ; all 
of them, without distinction of clergy and 
laity, priests unto God and the F'iUher, ad- 
mitted to the same privileges, summoned ' 
to the same life, bound, except in so far as 
God had otherwise appointed, to the same 
duties. I 

The distinction thus drawn by Wyclif is 
not the same as that drawn by the later 
reformers between the visible and the in ; 
visible Church, while it is possessed of 
intinilcly more practical power. Accord-, 
ing to the later view the itivisibU Cijurch 
is liie body of Christ, and it cannot be i 
sought on earth, for it consists of ** the | 
whole number of the elect that have been, 
are, or shall be." The visible Church, on '; 

the other hand, consists of all who opoo 
earth ** profess the true religion."* Our 
thoughts are thus divided between what 
is ideal but cannot be realized on earth, 
and what is realized on earth but roust 
always be actual, not ideal. Our aspirar 
tions are transferred from earth to heaven, 
and we need not strive after the ideal 
here, because we cannot reach it here. 
There is upon this view, strictly speaking, 
no body of Christ upon earth at all, but 
only an institution, a family, a house, or 
rather many institutions, families, houses, 
in which we are trained to be members of 
that body. VVycIif's view again fastens 
our attention upon something which ex- 
ists within the outward Church, which is 
ideally perfect, which is therefore entitled 
to our first regard, which shows us what 
the whole Church ought to be, and which, 
because it is ideal, must supply a standard 
of attainment to everything occupying a 
lower ground. Were one to follow out 
the thought he would perhaps say that the 
body of Christ is here, in the form of the 
outward professing Church, and that, like 
Christ's own earthly body, it is dwelt in 
by the spirit which is yet to pervade it 
whoKy and to transfuse it wholly into a 
spiritual body when the appointed mo- 
ment comes. Anyway, the main point is 
this, that there is a truly ideal element 
within the present outward framework, 
that there is a Church in the highest sense 
within the Church in a lower sense, and 
that upon this, and not upon a distinction 
between the visible and the invisible 
Church we are to fix our thoughts. The 
one may, indeed, although in a different 
way, be as visible as the other. 

Such was the principle, and a conse- 
quence of great logical importance flowed 
from it upon which Wyclif must have 
more or less acted whether he presented 
it clearly to his own mind or not. In 
looking upon the outward and professing 
Church as the body of Christ, it was of 
course possible to think only of Christ in 
his' state of humiliation. The visible and 
professing body was not perfect enough 
to be identified with Christ in any higher 
state. But if so, it naturally followed that 
the inner circle of believers, the essence 
of the Church, those from whom we learn 
what the Church should be, were to be 
identified with the glorified Redeemer, 
witii the Redeemer who had surmounted 
all impertection and limitation, and who 
now, clothed with his ** spiritual body," 
was complete. That thought cut in an 

• Westminster Confession, ch»p. xxv. 



instant at the root of all the secularization 
and worldliness of the Church. What 
pretensions could she have to earthly 
honor and dignity, whose duty it was to 
take her Master*s place in the world and 
do his work ? VVhat desires could she 
have for them, the distinguishing charac- 
teristic of whose position was that she 
was already passing out of the region of 
earthly, and was seated in the region of 
heavenly things ? Her pretensions could 
only be to a cross, to more toil than other 
men, to more suffering than other men, to 
self-denial and self-sacrifice, to do good 
which would be unrewarded here, to rest 
which would be found only on the other 
side of the grave. Her desires could only 
be that she might walk more worthily of 
her ideal standing in the heavenly places. 
In proceeding upon these principles the 
great reformer of the fourteenth century 
laid down lines which even the reformers 
of the sixteenth century did not see with 
equal clearness, and which are not fully 
comprehended to this day. 

Out of this ideal view of what the Church 
of Christ was, all Wyclif's efforts as a 
reformer flowed. It was thus that, nega- 
tively, he set himself with so much deter- 
mination against the worldliness, pride, 
luxury, and selfish ease of the prelates 
and priests of his time. He went back to 
the early Church. He contrasted in a 
thousand ways the condition of our Lord 
and his apostles with that of those around 
him who arrogated to themselves the 
name of the Church. He attacked them 
with reproach, scorn, indignation, with 
every species of invective. And yet 
through all, the reader is chiefly over- 
powered, as he is overpowered in St. 
John, with the wail of melancholy. It is 
the thought of Christ's little flock un- 
tended, uncared for, that rends his heart, 
and that dictates these passionate appeals 
to the Almighty, to the God of holiness 
and mercy. Nor was it otherwise with 
his efforts after positive reformation, with 
his attack upon the citadel of Romish 
error, the doctrine of transubstantiation, 
with his devotion to preaching, with his 
institution of ** poor priests,*' and with his 
translation of the Bible into the tongue of 
the people. Upon these things individu- 
ally it is not necessary to dwell. Enough 
to observe that all of them may be traced 
to the operation of the same great princi- 
ple, of the same ideal view of the position 
and privileges of the true members of 
Christ's Church on earth. Nor need it in 
the least degree surprise us that, while 
himself retaining his living at Lutterworth, 

he sent forth his itinerant preachers with- 
out gold or silver or brass in their purses, 
believing that the laborer would be found 
worthy of his food. He was trying the 
ideal system which he discovered in the 
New 7'estament, but it was by no means 
necessary on that account to do away with 
the existing system either of parishes or 
of parish tithes. The functions of the two 
sets of preachers, the parochial and the 
itinerant, were indeed entirely different. 
The former were to edify the Church, and 
to administer her ordinances for the sake 
of an already believing flock. The latter 
were to awaken the careless, to reclaim 
wanderers, and to convert the unbelieving. 
In his relation to the two classes, there- 
fore, the laborer might well be sustained 
in wholly different ways. No one will 
deny that the ideal system upon which the 
Saviour sent forth his disciples to preach 
would lend to the Church enormous power 
in dealing with the masses of a nation 
that have as yet refused to listen to the 
call of the Gospel. But it by no means 
follows that where a Christian congrega- 
tion has been formed the same system is 
equally important. Wyclif appears to 
have felt this. He saw no contradiction 
between drawing the tithes of his own 
parish and sending out his " poor priests " 
with nothing to depend on but the alms of 
those to whom they preached. He even 
complained at one time (A.D. 1366) that 
attempts were made to engage him in 
controversy in order to deprive him of his 
ecclesiastical benefices ; ♦ and, although 
he may have afterwards gone farther in his 
views, he retained his emoluments at Lut- 
terworth to the last, and no one has ever 
attempted to charge him with inconsis- 

In all these ecclesiastical and religious 
movements, then, we appear to trace the 
working of a high New Testament ideal- 
ism as the chief guiding principle of Wyc- 
lif's life. He has been upon the Mount 
with God, and his great aim is to find as 
far as possible practical expression for 
the pattern that has been shown him 

But Wyclif s idealism not only explains 
his work as an ecclesiastical reformer, it 
goes far also to explain his views on prop- 
erty. Upon this point it is desirable to 
say a few words, partly because of its 
immense importance, and partly because 
Wyclif's position in connection with it has 
been often misunderstood. Even so emi- 
nent an historian as Dr. Stubbs declares 

* Vaughan, Monograph, p. loS. 


that ** his logical system of politics applied 
to practice turns out to be little else than 

One point seems to be clear. The sys- 
tem must be applied to all property. The 
attempt has been made, but unsuccess- 
fully, to separate between its application 
to Church property and to property of 
other kinds. Wyclif did not hold that 
every man's private property was his own, 
but that the Church's property belonged 
to the State. He applied his principle to 
the latter; but the principle covered all. 
That principle is expressed by the cele- 
brated apothegm that *' dominion is found- 
ed on grace ; " and the meaning is that no 
man, and no body of men, could claim an 
absolute and inherent right to the goods 
possessed by them. All things belonged 
to God, and were granted by him as fiefs 
are by a feudal superior. As originally 
bestowed they were forfeited by sin, but 
were restored by grace or mercy, on con- 
ditions opposed to sin, and which sin 
must again invalidate. It follows as a 
natural consequence that the man who 
uses his possessions ill forfeits them in 
principle, and ought to lose them. The 
dificulty is of course to find out the point 
at which the goods are forfeited, and who 
has a right to take them. Until the treatise 
in which Wyclif's views are fully explained 
is published, it is not possible to say pre- 
cisely how he would have met these dif- 
ficulties in the case of civil or personal 
property. We know, however, that he 
strenuously denied that, upon his prin- 
ciple, a debtor might escape payment of \ 
his debt, a tenant of his rent, or a servant 
of his obligations, whenever these several 
persons were satisfied, that the creditor, 
the landlord, or the master was a wicked 
man. We know that he maintained that 
by the law of God ** common men should 
serve meekly God and their lords, and do 
true service to God, and their masters. 
By the law of Christ if the lord be an un- 
true man and tyrant to his subjects they 
should yet serve him." ** Pay to all men 
debts," he says, **both tribute and cus- 
tom, and fear, and honor, and love. Our 
Saviour Jesus Christ suffered meekly a 
painful death from Pilate; and St. Paul 
said that he was ready to suffer death by l 
doom of the emperor's justice, if he de- 
served to die." t In such cases he seems | 
to have satisfied himself with the general 
statement that to property misapplied and 
abused the owner had no longer a rightful 

• ConMitutional Historv, vol, it., p. 440. 
t Penuin^tun's Liie of Wyclif, pp. 7s, 76. 


The case of Church property opened an 
easier and clearer path to his conclusion. 
In judging of bis argument it is essentially 
necessary to bear in mind the precise 
state of matters with which he had to con- 
tend. It was urged by his opponents that 
under no circumstances whatever could 
either the persons or the property of the 
clergy be touched by the civil power. 
Both were sacred. God had granted his 
Church an indefeasible and inalienable 
claim to freedom from all interference on 
the part of the State. The State had no 
right to touch the persons of churchmen, 
whatever their deserts, or the property of 
the Church, however it might be abused. 
With his keenest irony, therefore, Wyclif 
showed to what absurdities this conten- 
tion led. For such abuses there roust be 
a remedy, and the remedy rests upon the 
principle that dominion, which is distinct 
from power, is founded on grace. Here, 
too, he had another advantage, for his 
principles led him, as we have seen, to 
maintain that the clergy were not the 
Church. The whole people of the land, 
the king, the Parliament, and the nation, 
were as much a part of the Church as the 
clergy were. For them the clergy existed, 
not they for the clergy. The latter were 
not masters; they were ministers or ser- 
vants for the common good, and all ser- 
vants must be liable to give an account of 
their stewardship. Thus looked at, the 
interference of the State with the property 
of the Church was not the interference of 
an extraneous power. The magistrate 
was the vicar of God,* the nation was a 
Christian nation acting through its natural 
representatives, who disowned neither 
their duty nor their responsibility to rep- 
resent it. It was taking stock of goods 
which had been bestowed upon it from a 
divine source, and for divine purposes. 
The source had been lost sight of. Even 
in pleading that their dotations were di- 
vine the clergy had forgotten what the 
divine meant. The purposes had been 
abused ; instead of being divine they were 
become worldly, sensual, devilish. The 
Christian nation had need to reform itself, 
and in doing so it was entitled to see that 
Church property was applied to the Chris- 
tian objects for which it was intended. 
All this, it will be seen, was the very re- 
verse of what is nowadays urged as the 
voluntary view. 

But although Wyclif's path was thus 
easier in the case of Church than of per- 

• Comp. extracts from the reformer's works in 
'*Life," bv Vaughan, vol. ii., p. ziSa, aod in ** Mono- 
graph," by the same author, p. 45a 



sonal property, his principle really em- 
braced both. What are we to think of it ? 
Professor Shirley has endeavored to de- 
fend it by the consideration that it **was 
put forth by its author as an ideal, and 
with the full admission that it was incom- 
patible in many of its results with the 
existing state of society;"* and Canon 
Pennington pleads on behalf of the pro- 
mulgation of it that it was **only a theo- 
ry." t Both apologies are unsatisfactory. 
Ideals may not be capable of being at 
once reduced to practice, but there is 
nothing so truly practical as they are. 
Nor is there anything that a man is less 
justified in putting forth than a false the- 
ory. Both ideals and theories present an 
end which we are not simply to admire, 
but towards which we are to work. They 
contain in them the seeds of an endless 
growth. Much of Christianity is in the 
best sense ideal; and because it is so, it 
is entitled to the admiration of men now, 
and will command the allegiance of the 
best of men until they have a higher ideal 
(and when will that be ?) set before them. 
The true justification of Wyclif is that 
his principle is sound. No man has in 
all circumstances an absolute right to 
what he has acquired or inherited. Why 
should we hesitate to say so? Even if 
we look at the principle in its relation to 
mere worldly movements, it will, perhaps, 
appear not so absurd or dangerous as we 
might at first sight suppose. The diffi- 
culty of the application may be granted, 
but upon what other principle shall we 
justify the expulsion of the Stewarts, the 
Bourbons, or the Napoleons? We may 
not always see clearly when to enforce it. 
The principle is ideal. We are commonly 
very far from the ideal. But there come 
moments in history when, under the pres- 
sure of mighty wrongs, the divine right- 
eousness and justice rise before a nation's 
eyes like a vision of the third heaven. In 
moments of that kind the nation is in an 
ideal world ; and, under the influence of 
the ideal, it executes righteousness and 
justice with a decision and a swiftness of 
which, when it afterwards returns to its 
normal state, it can only say that it was 
then hearing unspeakable words, which it 
is not lawful for a man to utter. That 
seems to be the real meaning of Wyclif's 
principle; and, thus applicable even to 

* Fasciculi Zizaniorum, p. IxiL 
t Life of Wyclif, p. 74. 

personal property, it is more easily ap- 
plicable to the property of the Church, 
Wyclif had certainly not the slightest idea 
of secularizing the latter when it was well 
used. It was never more than "the su- 
perfluity of the temporal goods " of the 
Church that he desired to attain, and his 
very assertion that dominion was founded 
in grace, rendered it necessary to main- 
tain that where this grace was, nothing 
should be permitted to interfere with the 
dominion. The principle may come to 
be needed again ; and it will be well that, 
in any changes that may be before us, it 
be interpreted in its author's sense, and 
for such ends as he wbuld have proposed. 
We have said enough. It has been no 
part of our plan to sketch the life of 
Wyclif, to describe his enormous labors, 
or to follow him into all those varied 
spheres of activity in each of which he 
accomplished enough to make any man 
famous, though he had done nothing else. 
We have simply aimed at pointing out a 
view of the man which has been too little 
noticed, and which yet seems to supply 
the real key to all he did. The lesson is 
an obvious one. We ought to encourage 
idealism in the Church, and especially in 
the clergy. Many fear both, and dread — 
what is by no means impossible even in 
our day — a return to the old oppression 
exercised by the clergy over the laity. To 
counteract this they would lower the con- 
ception of the Church's and the minister's 
work. The true prevention is to heighten 
both. That is the New Testament plan ; 
and, if the spirit of the New Testament 
be adhered to, it will be found wise to fol- 
low it. Wealth, ease, luxury, pomp, great 
worldly state, are the very last things to 
which our Lord or his apostles would have 
pointed as what ought to characterize the 
ministry which they founded — the very 
last, unless there be something still more 
remote from their thoughts, dominion over 
the souls of men. l^he true glory of the 
ministry does not lie in such things, but 
in humility, love, self-denial, self-sacrifice, 
a heavier cross than is given other men to 
bear, and labors from which there shall 
be rest only in eternity. That is the 
Christian ideal; and when the Church 
strives to realize it in ever increasing 
measure, men will have no need to fear 
her. They will rather encourage her, and 
say, ** While you keep to paths like these 
we will go with you, for we see that God 
is with you." 

William Milligan. 



From Blackwood's Maffisine. 


A MAN must be a bore, or a social wet 
blanket, if he be not missed from the 
society of a Highland hall. Venables 
was missed by his uncle ; he was missed 
by his cousin Grace; he was missed and 
mourned by Donald Ross and the gillies. 
And, no doubt, he might have been more 
missed than he was by Leslie, had it not 
been for certain si^i^nificant intimations, 
dropped in the course of the conversa- 
tion which Glenconan had with his elder 
nephew according to arrangement. It is 
true that Mr. Moray said very little, being 
almost inclined to repent his frankness 
with Jack Venables ; and as he had already 
nearly burned his fingers, he was appre- 
hensive of further indiscretions. Yet he 
did give the young laird of Roodholm to 
understand that Grace might possibly take 
it into her head to marry, and that for 
himself he had every confidence that his 
daughter would choose wisely. He hint- 
ed, moreover, that he had said much the 
same thing to Venables, which was quite 
enough to send Leslie to a scrutiny of his 
own feelings. And now that the scrutiny 
was forced upon the young man, he was 
surprised at the dulness of his own per- 
ceptions. But once entered on so fasci- 
nating a course of study, he made aston- 
ishing progress; and self-communings, 
illustrated by more assiduous perusals of 
his cousin's pretty face, taught him a thou- 
sand things he bad scarcely suspected. 
Strong and sluggish natures like his some- 
times, nevertheless, answer promptly to 
the spur; and when a spark is set to a 
slumbering passion, it burns like the sub- 
terraneous volcanic fires in Java or Japan, 
where the peaceful landscapes smile over 
the fragile crust that may explode at any 
moment in a violent conflagration. 

As for Grace, she had rather felt to- 
wards Leslie as her father felt. He was 
a man she would have turned to in any 
trouble. She believed in his honor as 
she did in his Christianity. She was 
sometimes almost startled by the eloquent 
expression he gave to those deeper emo- 
tions that were silently at work within 
her. She felt that the active sympathy 
of one so staunch and so earnest might 
be everything in certain circumstances. 
Nevertheless, like her father, she rather 
admired than loved him, cousins as they 
were, and thrown continually into the 

most familiar intercoarse. But hitherto 
she had seen life almost entirely on its 
sunny side, and so she found herself more 
at home in the society of the more voluble 
Mr. Venables. 

And hitherto, and so far, the stars in 
their courses had been unquestionably 
fighting for Jack. But now, as it chanced, 
Mr. Leslie was to have his innings at a 
moment when it seemed to come to him 
as an interposition of Providence. 

Moray appeared one morning at the 
breakfast table with care upon his brow. 

" I have got a batch of bothersome busi- 
ness letters to answer, and I think that 
nowadays I hate business as much as I 
once used to enjoy it. And this is such 
a beautiful day, that it seems all the more 
pity to waste it. Needs must, however, 
when'— you know the rest, and there is 
no help for it. Suppose you and Grace 
arrange to do something, Leslie. 1 shall 
be all the more resigned if I know you are 
enjoying yourselves." 

Leslie brightened up. Good-hearted as 
he was, and fond of his uncle, he scarcely 
sympathized with him in his present trial. 
And although generally truthfulness itself, 
he was guilty of a compliment de cir con- 

** I am sure we are very sorry, sir; but 
you know the motto of the Russells, 
* What must be, must be.' Perhaps if 
you can knock off your work, you may 
join us later in the day." Then turning 
to his cousin, "What do you say, Grace? 
Shall we take the wagonette and the chest- 
nuts, and drive over to Tomnahurich?" 

Now the lively Grace, with all her re- 
gard for him, rather shrank from a day's 
tite-d. tete with her somewhat solemn 
cousin. If she had told the truth she 
would have confessed that he almost 
frightened her; and she seldom, unless 
when his animated conversation made her 
forget herself, felt altogether at ease in 
his company. But on this occasion, as 
her father had said of his correspondence, 
there seemed to be no help for it, so she 
resigned herself with alacrity and a charm- 
ing grace. 

In fact, Tomnahurich had a mystical 
attraction for her — all the more so, that 
on the only occasion when she had visited 
it, she had for once been out of tune with 
her favorite companion. Jack Venables 
had been at her elbow through a brilliant 
afternoon, and his lively rattle had jarred 
upon her sensibilities, as the blaze of the 
sunshine had seemed unsuitable to the 

The wagonette with the chestnut cobs 



came round, and Grace stepped upon the 
box seat by the side of her cousin. The 
taciturnity of the driver surpassed her 
apprehensions — one may easily have too 
much of peace and calm. Leslie seemed 
embarrassed and lost in thought, although 
be handled the reins carefully over the 
somewhat breakneck roads. He would 
talk with almost feverish fluency for a 
minute or two, and then relapse into long 
silence. Had Grace been more self-con- 
scious, she might have feared he was on 
the brink of a proposal, although as- 
suredly nothing was further from bis 
thoughts ; and he was one of the last men 
to throw away a game by precipitation. 
She was immensely relieved when the 
carriage pulled up, and the groom was left 
in charge to await their return, the horses 
being picketed on a patch of turf. Now 
she was no longer hand-locked to a spas* 
modically galvanized corpse, and could 
break away to gather wild flowers, or on 
any other excuse. Her pet terrier ran 
yelping on ahead. Leslie loaded himself 
with the luncheon basket, with a rug, and 
his cousin's sketch-book, and strode along 
by her side. The scenery was pictur- 
esque enough and wild enough. What 
had once been a tolerable driving-track 
ended where the wagonette had drawn 
up, and was only continued by a rough 
footpath, winding up a steep green hill. 
There were solemn associations with it 
too, inconsistent with picnics and lunch- 
eon hampers ; for many a century be- 
fore Tomnahurich had been consecrated 
by the Catholic Church, and it was still 
sacred to the feelings and the superstitions 
of the neighborhood. 

If we are not abroad in our Celtic phi- 
lology, Tomnahurich may be translated 
"the hill of the fairies;-' at all events, 
that is the name by which the Celts call it 
in the Saxon. It is a little churchyard on 
a bold knoll or bluff, in the midst of which 
might be traced the foundations of a Rom- 
ish chapel. Many generations had died 
and gone to dust since the sacred edifice 
was abandoned for the distant kirk of the 
Reformed religion. The surrounding 
glens had been depopulated by emigra- 
tion, and descendants of the dead folks 
njight be flourishing beyond the Atlantic, 
owning forest farms, or running lumber- 
ing concerns in Canada, speculating in 
»harcs in Wall Street, or in grain and pork 
in Chicai^o. But still the gillies and shep- 
herds of the neighborhood would bring 
their dead to repose on the mound of 
"Can you not fancy," observed Leslie, 

as they climbed the hill — and it must be 
confessed that he might have chosen a 
more inspiriting subject, — ** can you not 
fancy the melancholy little processions 
that have followed the path we are tread- 
ing ? It seems to me that those who live 
in loneliness like this must miss the de- 
parted who were dear to them more than 
we, who are thrown into the whirl of life 
and liiay forget now and again, if we can- 
not altogether console ourselves. We 
bury our dead out of our sight, and so far 
we are done with them ; but in these 
Highland solitudes, after the funeral as 
before it, do what they will, the dead must 
always be with them. Look at the peas- 
ants of the Breton coast, with their som- 
bre fancies, which nevertheless are sad 
realities to the survivors." 

Grace, although sufficiently impression- 
able, was taken aback, for she happened 
to be thinking of the cold chicken in the 
basket. But tantbUn que mal^ she caught 
the ball on the rebound, and dropped sym- 
pathetically into her companion's gloomy 
train of thought. 

** And can you conceive anything more 
sadly depressing than a child's funeral 
here in the winter ? There is no putting it 
off, because the few mourners have gath- 
ered together from great distances, per- 
haps hazarded their lives in the blinding 
snowstorm and the snowdrifts. And the 
mother, broken down by watching and 
grief, is toiling up the hill behind the little 
coffin ; and even the father's strength has 
been overtasked in digging through the 
frozen ground ; and the light of the cot- 
tage has been laid to rest in a spot that is 
the very abomination of bleak desola- 

With such cheerful talk they beguiled 
the way, till, having reached the summit 
of the grassy steep, the lonely churchyard 
lay full in front of them. Whatever it 
might be in the depth of winter, the spot 
seemed enchanting now. It was on the 
grassy crest of a rocky headland, sur- 
rounded on three sides by a brawling 
stream. A clump or two of venerable 
yews had been dwarfed and warped by 
exposure to the weather ; and beneath and 
around them, and within the dilapidated 
wall, were the mounds, not a few of which 
were almost level with the greensward, 
with a sprinkling of grey and moss-grown 
headstones. The lustre of the noonday 
sun was gliding the scene he could hardly 
brighten ; but by way of compensation, 
the mountains to the westward were 
bathed in all the glories of his golden light. 
Both Leslie and his cousin involuntarily 



paused, simultaneously struck by the pa- 
thos and the splendor of the spectacle. 
A still more touching; surprise was await- 
ing them. As Leslie was about to move 
on, Grace laid a fin^^er 00 his arm. But it 
hardly needed her whispered " Hush ! " to 
make him stoop forward and listen with 
all his ears. There was a murmur of 
childish voices, which would have sounded 
stranorely spirit like had it been midnight 
instead of brilliant noon. 

Grace stole softly forward, her cousin 
following. Another moment, and the 
chicken and her hunger were altogether 

What they saw was such a scene of un- 
afiEected grief as might have inspired the 
pen of a Hogg or the brush of a Wilkie. 
There was a newly cast mound beneath 
the boughs of a yew, and near the brink of 
the precipice. And by it a comely young 
woman was kneeling, her chin in her 
hands, her elbows on the grass, and her 
swimming grey eyes gazing wildly into 
vacancy. Though their feelings were 
stirred in sympathy with her grief, the on- 
lookers nevertheless were struck by the 
details of the picture. Setting the refin- 
ing influences of a profound sorrow aside, 
the mourner was graceful beyond the gen- 
erality of women of her station. If her 
complexion was freckled and her cheek- 
bones were somewhat high, there was 
beauty with great sweetness of expression 
in her features. The dress was of simple 
black, neatly fitted to the strong yet well 
shaped figure; and in the rich tresses of 
her hair, as they hung knitted over her 
neck, the auburn and the red changed to 
gold in the sunbeams. That the mother 
had been forgotten in the sense of her 
widowhood, was shown by the boy who 
was clinging to her skirts, and scared at 
his mother's unwonted forgetfulness of 
him. And a yet younger child, a bright 
little girl, was laughing and crowing, as 
she plucked at the gowans. 

Leslie drew back instinctively, though 
the mourning widow was both blind and 
deaf. And Grace had accompanied him 
in a sympathet'c movement, though in an- 
other moment she had retraced her steps. 
She could not leave the mourner without 
trying to comfort her, though feeling in 
her heart that consolations must be cast 
away. Indeed the poor woman scarcely 
acknowledged the li^ht hand laid upon 
her shoulder. She cared as little for what 
was passing near her as for her children ; 
and the touch and the presence of the 
stranger were neither profanation nor in- 
trusion : so that Grace, with all her ear- 

nest desire to bring help, stood silent and 
abashed before that speechless sorrow. 
She said nothing: she stooped and kissed 
the children, and then she withdrew as 
quietly as her cousin had withdrawn. 

But if her feelings had been moved to 
their depths, she was full of feminine 
curiosity, as she vowed to herself that 
those feelings should find practical relief. 
Strange that she should have lived for 
weeks in those mountain solitudes, and 
know nothing of some cottage tragedy 
that must have been enacted almost under 
her eves. That a tragedy there was, there 
coulci be no doubt in the world : the wom- 
an's face was eloquent with a story of 
sorrow which she must 6nd an interpreter 
to explain. 

The interpreter was there, of course, all 
ready to her hand. She spoke very little 
to Leslie, who did not say much himself; 
and for once his cousin understood and 
admired his reticence. But she flew at 
Donald Ross, as he said afterwards, 
though with all due respect, **just as if 
one of the terriers had been fiying at the 
throat of a badger." 

Donald, as a rule, was ready enough to 
talk, especially to the young mistress he 
adored. But on this occasion he was re- 
served and embarrassed, which naturally 
whetted her keen curiosity. And for once 
Miss Grace spoke peremptorily, like her 
father, and went very roundly to the 
wished-for point. 

'* You understand me, Donald,** she ex- 
claimed, stamping her foot on the heather, 
and turning her back ostentatiously on 
the contents of the luncheon basket — 
'*you understand me, and you know what 
I mean to say; and so you will please to 
tell me everything about her." 

Donald raised his stalker's hat, and 
scratched his grey locks in profound per- 
plexity. He looked for help towards Mr. 
Leslie, but Mr. Leslie refused to under- 
stand him, being almost as curious on the 
subject as Miss Grace. Then he burst 
out in dire perplexity, — 

** Deil be in me, if there is anything I 

would refuse to tell you, Miss Grace, but 

'. it was Glenconan himsel' — and 


•* Oh, if you mean that my father has 

forbidden you," began the young lady, 

I with a calculated sternness which nearly 

' drove the unfortunate retainer beside him* 


" It's not precisely that, neither. Miss 

Grace : if it were, you might have tied me 

to a hart's horns before I would have told. 

But you know yourself that the laird may 

. mean much when he says litile ; and 



though you may be sure that his hand is 
always as open as his heart, and that the 
widow you were speal^in^ of has wanted 
for nothing, it*s my belief he would wish 
to keep anything from you that would be 
troubling you." 

"Well, I see how it is," responded the 
young lady, softening down her tones into 
witching seductiveness, and breaking into 
a smile which went straight to Donald*s 
heart. " My father meant for the best, 
but chance has been too much for him. 
I mean to get to the bottom of this mel- 
ancholy story, and may you not just as 
well tell it as he? He knows even better 
than you that I never care to be kept 


Donald looked inquiringly at Leslie. 
Like every one else, he had an instinctive 
confidence in the honor and good sense of 
the laird of Roodholm. Leslie simply 
nodded. He knew that Grace would have 
her will, and she might as well have it 
sooner as later. If he were called upon 
to interfere, he could always defend her 
with her father. And Donald, who was 
full of the tale he had to tell, and who 
rather prided himself on his gifts as a 
raconteur^ broke away in full cr^^ at the 
sign, like a hound after a wounded deer. 

"It's three-andthirty years past next 
Martinmas since I came first into the 
Strath, and Tve never known a finer lad 
in it than Angus M'lntyre. No day was 
too long for him, and no hill too stiff ; and 
J have known him bring the deer home 
upon his shoulders, when the pony would 
have broken down in the bogs. It was 
seven years ago, or it may be six, that he 
was married upon John Rutherford's 
daujjhter, and brought her here. Her 
father was a shepherd from the south 
country, and they say that he was sore 
against the match — for Rutherford was 
as obstinate as one of his own tups, and 
would always be set against the Highland- 
men; but between Angus and the lassie, 
they had their way. That Rutherford 
would miss her, you may believe ; and as 
for Angus, many a time he has said to 
me that his heart was sore and sorry for 
the old man. And they had the two bon- 
nie children you have seen with her up at 
the burying-place there. I have never 
married myself. Miss Grace, and I never 
raean to, begging your pardon; yet I will 
not say but what 1 have sometimes wished 
1 was Angus. 

^\ may have wished it one Saturday at 
even, just two months agone, if I had little 
thought at the time that I would never 
forget that night. We had been giving a 

look round the braes at the back of Bena- 
vourd, for we knew that Glenconan would 
be down in a week or two. And Angus, 
he would be insisting that I was to stop 
with him for supper, and he would be stir- 
ring the toddy, and the £:lass was going 
round, but yet the bit wife was the cheeri- 
est thing in the cottage. And he had told 
me that there was a litter of foxes in the 
cairn on Funachan: Meed, and the shep- 
herd had been complaining that very day, 
and he said he would need to be getting 
out some of the terriers and seeing after 
them. And so I said to him, after the 
last glass, that we would be seeing about 
them; and if it was a providence, as the 
minister might say, it was a providence 
of the wrong kind, but that very night I 
found the fox-hunter from Lochloy at the 

"He's an old man is Peter — as keen 
after the foxes as his dogs, but as stiff as 
Jock Rutherford; and he would by no 
means stay with us over the morrow, that 
was the Sabbath. He was bid to be on 
the Monday with the tacksman in Coulin; 
but if we thought well of it, he would take 
the cairn on Funachan on his road. So 
at last I said, and always will I rue it, 
that he was a wilful man, and must have 
his way. 

" Had it not been for Peter again, I 
would have turned back upon the Sunday 
when we met the minister. He said but 
little, but he looked the more, and many*s 
the time that I have minded on it since. 
And there was a beast of a raven that 
would follow us, croaking, all the way up 
Glendocharty; and Mary — that's the 
woman ye saw, Miss Grace — she would 
have keepit back Angus from going with 
us, for both of them were dressed and 
bound for the kirk. And Angus himself, 
for once, was not that willing, but he said 
that if we were set upon it, he was to 
show us the place ; so he whistled upon 
Smourach, his bit terrier, and gave a kiss 
and a smile to the wife. 

"The bitch fox had gone to her earth 
but little before us, and the dogs had 
opened on the scent or ever we got near 
to the cairn. And Peter likes ill that any 
should interfere with his pack, so Anu[us 
had picked up Smourach, and was holding 
her in his arms. Well, the big fox-hounds 
they stood whining and scraping outside ; 
and terrier after terrier would be sent in 
among the rocks, and when we laid our 
ears to the ground we could hear the fight- 
ing and the scratching. But the vixen, 
she had the best of them ; and dog after 
dog came back, blown and bleeding, and 



the day was getting on, and Peter growing 
desperate. It was then that Smourach 
made a spang out of Angus's arms, though 
I well believe he could have held her had 
it pleased him; but he was proud of the 
bit thing, and would always say that when 
once she put in her teeth, the worse she 
was worried the deeper they went. 

** But you are wearying, and I am com- 
ing to an end, and a doleful end it was for 
Angus. The battle had begun worse than 
before, and we all of us were lying and 
listening, when some of the stones slippit 
from beneath us. Angus was like a man 
distracted, for the way was closed, and 
unless we could open it out again, he had 
looked his last upon poor Smourach. So 
he said it behoved him to go in, and when 
I looked in his eyes I saw there was no 
holding him back. So he strips his coat 
and in he crawls, and we could hear to 
him scraping away among the stones, 
when the biggest of the blocks above him 
settled down. He must have moved some 
of the small stones inside that upheld it. 
And then there came a groan through the 
cracks that sent a grue to our hearts, and 
we knew that the great rock was upon 
him. We were down upon our knees, 
and tearing away, till our hands were 
bloody and our nails were rent ; and we 
got down till we saw the hair on the head 
of him, and the big bells of the sweat that 
were standing on his forehead. 

***Can you shift it, Donald?' he could 
just groan out; and I would have given 
ten years of my life to say ay to him. 
But unless we had brought half-a-dozen 
men with bars of iron, we could never 
have lifted it one inch. But when we 
could say nothing, and he maybe heard 
Peter sob — for the fell old hunter was 
crying like a woman — all he breathed out 
was, *Then the Lord be good to me!* 
and these were the last words that he ever 

Donald, absorbed in his story, had been 
stimulated by Grace's attention. But 
when he looked at her on finishing, her 
pale face frightened him. It was not for 
nothing that Moray, knowing her impres- 
sionable temperament, had been afraid of 
shocking her by so tragic a tale. But 
with her sensitive nerves she had her 
father's courage ; and it was to the fate of 
the unfortunate widow that she turned her 
practical mind. She forced Donald to 
tell how the news had been ** broken " by 
strong men who could not control their 
emotion, and startled the bereaved widow 
by the very intensity of their sympathy ; 
and though she could not go to the cot- 

tage in her present agitation, thenceforth 
her thoughts were full of its occupant 

Moray was both shocked and angry 
when he met the excursionists on their 
return. His daughter's nerves had beea 
sadly shaken by listening to such a narra- 
tive so near its scene. On consideration, 
it was not difficult to obtain his forgive- 
ness for Donald, who indeed, in the cir- 
cumstances, could hardly have helped 
speaking. But time after time he cursed 
his own folly in letting his daughter go 
near the churchyard and the cottage. So 
far as material help to the widow went, he 
had nothing with which to reproach him- 
self. His liberality had fed and clothed 
the little family, and was ready to assure 
its future into the bargain. But what 
haunted Grace, with that slow death-agony 
under the boulder, was the look in the 
widow's face. There was a touch of the 
insanity that brings no oblivion — that 
distorts the horrors which memory will 
revive. Judging by the effects on herself, 
a comparatively unconcerned listener, she 
could guess how the tragedy must have 
told on the woman it so deeply affected. 
And with her actively sympathetic nature, 
inaction was out of the question. Even 
her father, now that the mischief had been 
done, felt that she must be left free to 
follow her warm impulses. Yet she shrank 
herself from approaching so sacred a 
grief, distrusting her power of bringing 
either consolation or alleviation. 

It was then that Leslie had his oppor- 
tunity — though, to do him justice, he 
never thought of it as an opportunity at 
the time ; nor did he know till long after- 
wards how well he had improved it. Iq 
which he differed altogether from Mr. 
Venables, who, although perhaps to the 
full as warm-hearted as the other, could 
never for the life of him help thinking 
how he could turn everything to some 
personal account. There is nothing which 
a sensible girl who is vaguely contemplat- 
ing marriage craves so much in a lifelong 
companion as intuitive sympathy and in- 
telligent affection. They are the supports 
on which she hopes to lean — the shelter 
that may shield her from the storms of 
life. And now Leslie's sympathy, al- 
though it was silent, was as clear to her 
as the intelligence, the perspicuity of 
which almost alarmed her. He said very 
little, as was his custom, but she felt that 
his loving penetration was searching out 
her innermost thoughts. And she knew, 
besides, and she had good reason to 
know, that he was employing himself very 
; energetically in her service. 



When she came down to breakfast, 
after a restless night, she had missed her 
cousin, and asked about him. 

** He called for a glass of rum and milk 
in his room, and was away by seven 
o'clock, they tell me," said her father. 
" He did not vouchsafe any message for 
QS, but I fancy we both guess his busi- 

So in the early forenoon Grace was 
sauntering on the path that led over the 
hills towards Mrs. M*Intyre*s shieling. 
Nor was it long before she saw Leslie ap- 
proaching. He was coming on leisurely, 
as if lost in thought, but at sight of her he 
quickened his pace. 

*• Well, Ralph ! " was all the greeting she 
gave him, and yet there was that in her 
look and in her tone which amply rewarded 
him for his early expedition. 

" Yes," he said, answering her unspoken 
inquiries — **yes, 1 have been to see her, 
and I think I see, too, how we can help 

Grace was of course all anxiety ; but 
she repressed the questions that came 
crowding to her lips, leaving her silent 
cousin to do the talking. And he spoke 
with so much good sense and with such 
sincere feeling, that she had never listened 
to him with greater pleasure. 

"You of all girls will understand me, 
Grace, when I tell you that I never was 
so nervous in my life as when I walked 
up to the door of that poor woman's cot- 
tage. There is something so sacred in a 
calamity like his, that it seems sacrilege 
for a man and a stranger to approach it. 
And when sorrow has almost turned the 
brain, in our ignorance and our reverence 
we are almost hopeless to cope with it. 
In fact, had it not been for one thing, I 
should have gone on hesitating " — he did 
not add, •* as you have been doing." 

But Grace nnished the sentence for him 
io her mind, and, full of her gratitude, was 
ready to reward him. 

"^And I know what that one thing was, 
and that you wished to spare my weak- 
ness an efiort. Nor shall I forget it, Ralph 
— of that you may be sure ; and now tell 
nac everything." 

** Really, I don't know that there is 
RHich to tell, except that I have prepared 
the way for you, and left her hoping for 
your visit. Though that is something, for 
1 am sure you will do her good, and in- 
deed may probably prove her salvation. 
The fact is that the poor woman has been 
Dcglected, thpugh not intentionally; and 
niritQanaged — with the best intentions. 
Your father, as of course he would, gave 

his people carte blanche^ and in the way 
of meal, and milk, and mutton, she has 
everything heart can desire. I believe 
that the neighbors, from Donald Ross 
downwards, would each one of them cut 
off a hand to spare her a finger-ache. But 
they scarcely understand her case, — as 
how should they? And living in the 
shadows of that brooding solitude — you 
remember our talk of yesterday, just be- 
fore we saw her? — her dead is always 
with her ; the horrors of that death-scene 
are always present with her ; and I believe, 
from what she let slip, that the husband 
she loved haunts her in her visions of the 
night like the vampires of the Hungarian 
legends. Unhappily, perhaps, she seems 
to be a remarkable woman for her station : 
what you might have been," he added, 
with a serious smile, ** had you been born 
a shepherd's daughter and similarly be- 

•* But the minister ? " said Grace. ** He 
is a good man — is he not? Has he not 
gone to visit her?" 

"The minister is an excellent man, and 
his visits have been only too frequent. 
From what I have gathered, and it was a 
good deal, his views are as strong and as 
sincere as they are narrow. He pities 
her; he feels for her, according to his 
lights ; but he is persuaded that the terri- 
ble death was a judgment. And even in 
consoling the widow, in his heart and con- 
science he feels that he must vindicate the 
ways of God to man, and says as much. 
So Mrs. M*Intyre, believing in her pas- 
tor's spiritual infallibility, is tormented by 
the notion of her husband's doom. \i he 
was made a flagrant example of the sin of 
Sabbath-breaking, if he was doomed here, 
he may be condemned hereafter." 

"How terrible!" 

" Is it not? But that is just where you 
may do unspeakable good, since you can 
talk religion as well as common sense, and 
speak to her of mercy instead of judgment. 
But it is not for me to tell you, Grace, how 
you may best comfort the widow. I should 
as soon think of giving a hint to one of the 
angels: if you cannot bring consolation to 
the cottage, then 1 throw up my hands. 
And even the minister is a candid man, 
and may listen to reason and the views of 
Glenconan's daughter. You go to work 
with him and with Mrs. M'Intyre, and 
come to me and report progress. In the 
mean time, I wash my hands of the whole 
matter — unless, indeed, you should want 

"That you assuredly shall not do, or I 
take no further step ; and 1 cannot use a 



strooc[er threat, for I believe that yie shall 
succeed in our errand if we only go hand 
ID hand. But you must still be my guide, 
and, you may be sure, I shall be very 
docile. Only tell me what I am to do, 
and you shall have no cause to complain." 

Leslie never in his life felt half so happy, 
and he would have very much liked to 
have told her so. A community of inter- 
ests had been established on the highest 
and holiest grounds ; and now he had 
proved and realized the virtues and the 
qualities with which he had always desired 
to credit his cousin. She was worth the 
loving, and she was worth the living and 
the working for, so from thenceforth he 
made up his mind to do both the one and 
the other; and when Leslie's mind was 
made up on a subject so all-important, it 
was by no means easy to move it. That 
happy moment seriously altered the odds 
against hopes and ambitions on the part 
of Mr. Venables. And it is more than 
probable that Grace made a guess at what 
was passing in his mind ; for her color 
rose, to her confusion, as her cousin*s 
eyes were riveted on her. 

But the confusion passed away, and the 
community of interest remained. The 
cousins went like angel visitors to the 
cottage, sometimes together, more often 
separately. They found that the widow 
could be won to confidences in a tiudtitey 
though she would shrink into herself when 
the two came together. But their sym- 
pathy began to teach her acquiescence, 
which might gradually grow to contented 
resignation. And although it was not 
often she spoke the thanks she looked, 
she could occasionally be eloquent in her 
gratitude to either when the other was 
away. She had warm feelings, or she 
could never have suffered so intensely ; 
and she had been educated above her 
present station. But let her enlarge on 
the praises of the absent as she might, 
she could never tire the patience of either 
of the listeners. Grace would hear how 
her manly cousin — who had saved the 
life of another at the risk of his own, to 
the admiration of the daring hillmen — 
could be tender and impassioned as any 
woman. She heard involuntary compar- 
isons drawn, much to his advantage, be- 
tween him and the very worthy minister, 
in whom, nevertheless, as we have said, 
Mrs. M'lntyre profoundly believed. She 
admired the tact, though it seemed pro- 
fanity to call it tact, which he had shown 
in these delicate circumstances ; and re- 
proaching herself for her blindness hith- 
erto, she rather ran into the opposite 

extreme. In short, she admired him and 
loved him more and more, and day by day 
— as a cousin; so it must be confessea 
that Mr. Leslie's chances were looking 

While as for him, in the true spirit of 
poetry, he took to idealizing the maidea 
he had longed to adore. Before he 
thought seriously of loving her, he had 
been hampered by his distrustful good 
sense. He had admired the natural grace 
of her movements ; he had meditated son- 
nets to her beauties when the fancy 
seized him ; he had liked the liveliness that 
sparkled in her badinage with Venables. 
But whether it were from a dash of jeal- 
ousy or doubts as to her depth, he had 
feared that she and Venables would be 
fitly matched. For Leslie, with no touch 
of persona] vanity, cherished a good deal 
of quiet intellectual pride. But with him, 
as with her, there had come a reaction, 
and now he was the more ready to worship 
that he had rashly criticised. Now he 
figured her to himself as the ministering 
angel, bringing messages from heaven to 
desolate hearth ; and then, in a natural 
sequence of ideas, he thought what her 
presence would be in her husband*s home. 
Altogether, if Mr. Venables had really left 
his heart in the Highlands, when he went 
southward full of self-confidence, to study 
the advancement of his fortunes, he might 
have had good grounds for uneasiaess, 
had he known all that was going on. 


But come what might of his affair with 
his cousin. Jack Venables had been do- 
ing well for himself. In Winstanley he 
seemed to have met what the spiritualists 
would have called his affinity, allowances 
being made for the difference in their 
ages. He had succeeded as the other 
hoped to succeed, by social gifts, by tact, 
and by enterprise. To be sure, as Jack 
learned by degrees, Winstanley had had 
certain advantages in starting. He heard 
the story bit by bit, and, as it were, inci- 
dentally ; yet Winstanley was really frank, 
and willing to be so, for he loved to find 
an admiring listener. And Jack sat at his 
feet with unfeigned and flattering interest, 
storing up the treasures of wisdom which 
he hoped to turn to practical account. 

Mr. Winstanley had been the second 
son of the Viscount Wreckin ; and through 
his mother he had inherited a handsome 
independent fortune. Had he been more 
humbly bora and poor, be would probably 



have done what Jack had dreamed of do- 
ing, and turned artist, launching out as an 
adventurer in full Bohemia. He was 
fond of art, and had fair talents that way, 
which possibly he might have cultivated 
to profitable purpose. He was fond of 
pleasure too, and it might well have been 
a question whether art or pleasure would 
have got the upper hand, had he given 
himself over to leading the life of a Miir- 
ger. As it was, the family traditions kept 
him straight, and fair play was given to 
his talents and his ambition. For two or 
three generations the Winstanleys had 
been distinguished in public affairs, and 
they had the habit of intermarrying with 
the governing Whig families. Taking to 
politics or diplomacy like ducks to the 
water, it was only a question with the 
Hon. Wilfred as to the direction in which 
he should steer. 

He might have sat for a borough which 
was in reality a close one, though the 
Winstanley influence was decently ig- 
nored. Or he might try his fortunes in 
diplomacy, with the absolute certainty that 
he would be taken care of. The young 
aristocrat hardly hesitated. He had 
gauged himself and knew that he was 
clever, bu^ he was not very sure that he 
was profound. He did know that he de- 
tested drudgery, and he was doubtful 
whether he might shine as a speaker. He 
would as soon have committed suicide off- 
hand, as condemned himself to commit- 
tees and the study of blue-books; and 
making a slow reputation as a hard-work- 
ing official, seemed a game that was far 
from being worth the candle. On the 
other hand, diplomacy attracted him. He 
liked the idea of looking forward in the 
future to twisting sultans and kaisers and 
kings round his Angers. While in the 
mean time, with the strong interest he 
could command, he might serve his ap- 
prenticeship in pleasant places. 

On the whole, he had had little reason 
to complain; and if he went through a 
good deal of disillusioning, he had the 
grace to acknowledge that bhe faults 
were his own. He was quick but not in- 
dustrious ; he was adroit, but scarcely 
reliable. He began at Florence as at- 
tachi at the court of the grand duke in 
the good old days, and there he made his 
reputation as a man who could shine in 
society, and who was an artistic con- 
noisseur. He went in for society as mat- 
ter of business, and for the fine arts in the 
way both of business and pleasure. He 
ran up bills, but he could afiEord to pay 
them ; he entertained, because he liked 


entertaining, while other attaches ate at 
their master's tables, going out to dinners, 
and giving none in exchange. So he early 
made his mark as a brilliant young man, 
who might do the State good service were 
he promoted. And even then, his pleas- 
ures, and what apparently were his ex- 
travagances, proved profitable. He flirted 
freely wit-h maids and matrons, saying 
little of importance, and picking up a good 
deal. He was the very man to be set to 
match some feminine diplomatist, who, 
being sent out to shear her dupes, never 
dreamed of going home shorn. The in- 
genuous youth had a way of looking into 
women's eyes, which at once disarmed 
them and drew them on. It could hardly be 
called deceit, it came so naturally to him. 
Then his art purchases were even more 
immediately lucrative than his social tal- 
ents. He had grand passions for partic- 
ular pictures. There was one Madonna 
by Correggio, which he bought at what 
appeared a fancy price, and fitted up in a 
fancy case, carrying it with him wherever 
he went. The passion being sated, he 
sold Our Lady afterwards for cent per 
cent on the original purchase money. In 
fact, although he might be taken in now 
and then, as must be the fate of the very 
shrewdest in experience, he generally put 
out good money at usury, and could realize 
his investments in the aggregate at a hand- 
some profit. 

He married young and for love, which 
might appear to be inconsistent with his 
practical character ; but, as it chanced, the 
lady had a considerable fortune, which 
was subsequently increased by an unex- 
pected inheritance. The lady had like- 
wise a will of her own, as she had a right 
to have, and we dare say there may have 
been domestic tussles before she was per- 
mitted to indulge it. At any rate, the 
pair ultimately signed terms of peace, and 
agreed to go each their own way as they 
liked, coming together on a footing of 
friendship when they pleased. Winstan- 
ley had gone through all the successive 
grades, from unpaid attachiXo first secre- 
tary of legation ; and then he became a 
promising minister, although he had never 
risen to the rank of ambassador. That, 
as I said, was very much his own fault. 
He was able, but only too versatile, for 
he wanted ballast. He loved change of 
scene, and was willing to be shifted any 
where, from the Hague or Frankfort to 
Quito or Pekin. And all that could cer- 
tainly be predicated of him at the Foreign 
Office was, that he would scarcely be set- 
tled ere he would wish to change again. 


And a change he invariably succeeded in 
effecting, which may have gone far to 
account for his complacent submission, 
though he went revolving in secondary 
spheres in place of rising to the primary. 

So that even in the discharge of his 
strictly official duties, the proverb of the 
rolling stone could hardly be said to apply 
to him, for he rolled out of one good berth 
into another, and had always respectable 
pay and appointments. But he was a man 
who had many irons in the fire, and had a 
marvellous instinct for never burning his 
fingers. As to that, we may let him speak 
for himself, as it was a subject on which 
he was especially fond of speaking when 
he could make sure of his audience. 
Winstanley detested the semblance of 
boasting, but he loved sympathetic appre- 
ciation. Perhaps it was the unfeigned 
and only half-conscious flattery of Jack 
Venables in that respect, which had drawn 
the elder adventurer most strongly towards 
the younger one. 

Jack had expressed his admiration and 
astonishment at the number and variety 
of those irons of Mr. Winstanlev, though 
he had merely heard of a few ot them in 
course of conversation. 

•• Well, you see," said Winstanley com- 
placently, ** I have lived in many places in 
my time, and have always made it a golden 
rule to turn my opportunities to the best 

'* And such opportunities ! " sighingly 
ejaculated Jack. 

'* Such opportunities, you may well say. 
No man can do more in the speculative 
way than one of her Majesty's diplomatic 
representatives in foreign parts. The 
misfortune is, with men sent to Peru or 
Patagonia, or those sort of places, that 
very few of them have money. They try 
to live on their incomes, or to save upon 
them, and they fail ignominiously. Now 
I had money, as it happened. Trade is 
forbidden even to consuls now, very prop- 
erly, though the poor devils have often to 
starve upon a pittance, in obedience to 
peremptory though righteous rules. But 
a free Briton may always invest his money 
in whatever quarter of the globe he hap- 
pens to find himself. A diplomatist has 
always access to the best information, and 
should be able to count on his position 
for guaranteeing his being honestly dealt 

** So, sir? " again ejaculated Jack, hang- 
ing on the lips of the speaker, in the con- 
fident hope of successfully imitating him. 

Winstanley was pleased, and went 00 ; 
perhaps he had bis reasons besides. 


** Look here, Venables ; I have taken a 
liking to you, and I don*t mind telling you 
something of my financial story for your 
guidance. I owe you a debt, and I hope 
to do more than this to pay it; meantime 
I am sure I may count on your discretion, 
for you conceive it is not to every one that 
I should give a catalogue raisonni of my 

Jack merely bowed and smiled, — he 
was too deeply interested to interrupt; 
and Winstanley proceeded : — 

" I don*t pretend for a moment that the 
list is exhaustive; indeed I have been 
perpetually selling out and buying again 
elsewhere, for even a steady run of gains 
would pall intolerably. I merely give 
you some illustrative cases, and mention 
what I consider the turning-points in my 

'* I flatter myself my first hit was an in* 
spi ration, and the boldest of all. When 
in the Foreign Office as a mere boy, I had 
made friends with Isaacs, the great Jew 
financier; or rather, Isaacs had conde- 
scended to take notice of me. By wa^ of 
extraordinary favor, he had allotted me a 
few shares in the Universal Bank. The 
shares had gone up like balloons, and they 
came down again as if the gas was escap- 
ing through rents, in the panic of — I 
don't precisely remember the year. I was 
in mortal terror, for the liability was un- 
limited; and I was in blessed ignorance 
of the bank's transactions and resources. 
I rushed olf to my friend Isaacs. I think 
I must have taken his fancy, as you have 
taken mine. It was after dusk, in his pri- 
vate sitting-room, and before answerinjif 
he went to see if the door was shut, and 
if the shutters were safe. Then he came 
back to me with an air of mystery, and told 
me that the concern was absolutely safe. 
'Schwartzchild' was the only word he 
dropped besides, and I could see that he 
would shut up like an ovster if I cross- 
examined him. 1 thankecf him, and shook 
hands, and chewed the cud of meditation 
through a sleepless night. If I sold, I 
should lose seriously, and might possibly 
be let in after all. But if the bank was 
safe, it must be the time to buy, for the 
falling shares were to be had for a song. 
It was all a question of Isaacs's good 
faith, for he was assuredly in the bank's 
innermost secrets, and as to that I exer- 
cised my diplomatic perceptions. I was 
persuaded that the man meant kindly by 
me, so I gave commission to sundry brok- 
ers to buy Universal shares. The bank 
was smashed up long ago, but I sold all 
, 1 bad bought afterwards, contenting my* 



self with a modest gain of ;^8ooo. Had I 
chosen to hold on I might have made half 
as much again; and had I stuck to the 
investment, I should have been a ruined 

••Those were pleasant times in Paris, 
when I was second secretary in the Fau- 
bourg St. Honord, during the golden days 
of the empire. As a member of our Le- 
gation, I knew nothing and wished to 
know nothing of such things as that luck- 
less * Mexican question,' which came on 
later, and was handed over to De Morny 
for the payment of his debts. But I culti- 
vated M. Haussman and the MM. Fould. 
I used to dine with those magnificent 
gentlemen pretty frequently, smoking cig- 
arettes over sweet champagne at dessert, 
and by putting two and two together, I 
exercised my prescience, and picked up 
sundry lots of house property on the lines 
of the prefect's projected demolitions. 

•• I had got rid of most of them before 
I was sent on to Vienna, to profit by my 
Parisian experiences in the Kaiserstadt. 
I had my knife and fork at Schwartzchtld's 
mansion in the Leopoldplatz, and I had 
my little interest in the house specula- 
tions, in the Danube Valley Reclamation 
schemes, and the Hungarian Land-banks. 
Well, well, perhaps it was lucky for me 
that the Viennese society and blank days 
of bear-shooting in the Carpathians bored 
me. At all events 1 was in Pekin, having 
cleared out everything Austrian at hand- 
some profits before the krach came in the 
great exhibition year. By the way, I re- 
member that relative of yours, Mr. Moray, 
ID China, but we will talk about him an- 
other time. I soon tired of China, and 
touched nothing there. No doubt there 
was money to be made by outsiders in 
silks and opium. But the fact was, it was 
the kind of money-making which is likely 
to leave pitch on the lingers. And as I 
caught an ague besides, I went to sun 
myself and get rid of the shivers in the 
di7 uplands of the Columbian Republic. 
There I dipped into coffee plantations, 
uiddyedmy hands in indigo-growing, — 
always in the way of legitimate invest- 
ments, remember; and I should have 
dooe a good deal better than I did, had it 
Dot been for the moral tone of the coun- 
ter. I give you my word of honor, that 
vbeo you get mixed up with a syndicate 
there, the rascals would leave even a Brit- 
ish mioister in the lurch ; and more than 
OQce I had to come down handsomely, to 
Mve the credit of those whom malevolent 
<caDdal might have called my confeder- 
ates. But 1 pray you to observe, my ; 

young friend, that though I have made 
many hits in my time, I never in my life 
did one dishonorable action, and so I saw 
my properties in Columbia seriously de- 
preciated. The more was the pity. Had 
others only run as straight, I might have 
left the Legation there with a handsome 
fortune. And I don't know, after all, but 
what I should have regretted it, for satis- 
factory speculation is the salt of life. 

•* But I am getting prosaic, and I fear I 
begin to twaddle. Oh yes, it is no use 
your protesting — I take your civility for 
what it is worth. And at any rate, I 
should say little about my squabbles with 
the Foreign Office. 

*• As for successive foreign secretaries, 
I always found them the most impractica- 
ble of men." And here Mr. Winstanley 
smiled. ••They said — and you may im- 
agine how absurd the accusation was — 
that I was never to be counted upon from 
month to month ; that the health and 
digestion which seemed perfect in London 
were always breaking down in foreign 
climates ; that I was perpetually giving 
myself leave of absence ; and that if they 
sent a specially important despatch, I was 
always crossing it en route. You conceive, 
that to a gentleman of comfortable means, 
there was no dealing with officials of that 
stamp. So I intimated courteously, that, 
leaving my services at her Majesty's dis- 
posal, 1 was quite content to be shelved 
in the mean time. To do them justice, 
they took me readily at my word, offering 
me the ribbon of St. Michael and St. 
George, which I declined respectfully with 

•' Did you not find it a little dull, sir, 
that change to a private life?*' 

** Dull, my good friend! dull! Why, 
I am never dull. I have always been too 
full of occupations. As for being bored 
sometimes, I don't say ; that is a different 
thing altogether, and the common lot of 
well-to-do humanity. At this moment I 
have no end of promising schemes on 
hand, as you will learn when we improve 
our acquaintance. But apropos to being 
bored, having a conscience and some con- 
sideration for you, 1 shall ring for my 
candle, and wish you good-night." 

From The Nineteenth Century. 

Mr. Parnell has at last put in definite 
words the demands of the Irish National 
ist party. 


In his 
January I 


ig under I he Ore; 

ipeech at Cork, on the 21st of 
St, he is reported to have said : 

wide and far 

:aching c 

Tliis irreducible minimi 
maoded by a Hunierous and 
parly in the next Parham 
important, therefore, to ki 

that Parliament whose resti 
asked for. it is strange that, practically, 
no work exists which gives a concise 
succinct account of it. Mr. Lecky bi 
the history of the Irish Parliament only 
as far as 17821 Mr. Fronde's history of it 
is intermingled with the narrative of other 
Irish affairs; whilst the late Chief Justice 
Whiteside's lectures 00 the subject by no 
means go sufBcienily deep to satisfy [he 
requirements of the political student. 

The constitution of Ihe Parliament of 
1782. or, as Mr. Parnell calls it, "Grat- 
tan's Parliament," cannot be satisfactorily | - 
understood without an acquaintance with | via 
the previous history of the Irish< 

According to Sir John Davies — prob- bui 
ably the El's*'**' authority 00 the subject 
— the first lime and occasion for insti- 
tuting Ihe High Court at Parliament 

Irish lesis; 


seal ol England. Thas 
Henry made the Irish Par- 
Itely dependent on the Eo- 
lent, and for nearly three 
wards that one acl ruled all 

I the 

:ign of Edward Ihe'djpuiy, 

the identity and insep- 
^1 ' arabiliiy of the crowns of the two coun- 
;" : tries were enacted. Hitherto the English 
sovereigns had only been "lords" of Ire- 
land, but in 1542 it wu enacted by the 
Irish Parliament that 

the King's Highness, his heirs and successon, 
kings uf Eng'.ind, iie always kings of this land 
of Ireland, and should hold and enjoy all pre- 
rogatives, dignities, etc., forever — as united 
and knit to the imperial Crown of the realm uf 

Thenceforward the union of Ihe crowns 

was an accomplished and recognized fact, 

and Ihe chief executive power In both 

d in the same person; 

gn could not himself 

ur personally conduct 

the governmenl of that country, a great 

part of his authority was delegated I 

England then, torn by 
lions, and threatened with Scotch 
incursions, was unable to look after her 
subjects who had migrated 10 and settled 
ia Ireland ; and (hey, left to their own re- 
sources, obtained authority from England, 
and held a Parliament amon^ themselves. , 
This privilege of separate legislative pow- ' | 

That it was not a satisfactory form of con- c 
neclion between the i«o countries, how 
ever, is proved by the fact that Henry thi 
Sevenlh most materially modified il. Ii 
fact, he annihilated the independence 
the Irish Parliament and made the gi 
ernment of Ireland directly dependent 
the sovereign's own will and pleasu 
Sir Edward Poyning was selected to gi 
eSecl to the king's determination, and w 
sent to Ireland as deputy. On his arri< 
Ihere, in 1494, he convened a Parliamenl ; ,rie 
and a most important and far-reaching dj'v 
act, known throughout Irish history as ,,), 
Poyning's Act, was passed. It enacted i,,^ 

no Parliament l>e holden hereafter in the s 
linci but M such season as the King's Li 
tenant and Council Ihere first do certify 

viceroy, or lord lieutenanl, witti 
unci) was associated. 
This Irish Council consisted of some 
wentyor thirty members — Ihe lord chan- 
:ellar of Ireland and some of the judges, 
he Archbishop of Dublin, a bishop or two, 
ind some nobles. Practically it wa* a 
hird chamber of the legislature, as all 
ih bills had to receive its approval bc> 
r goinK before the English Privy Coun- 
cil, and before submission to the Irish 

Such was the constilulion of Ireland at 
Ihe beginning of ihe seventeenth century ; 
vas it at the end of that cen- 
e may pass over Ihe brief in- 
. in Ihis form of government; 
me when Cromwell, with the gilled fore- 
ight of a great statesman, anited the Irilb 
md English Parliaments, and established 
omplelefree trade between the twocouo- 
hen James the Second, 
land, sought to make a 
and convoked a Parlia- 
er each of these brief 
inlerrupiions the country reverled to Its 
jd constilulion under Poyning's Act. 
u- i In the e.irly part of the eighleentb cen- 
le . tury an important event occurred which 

'*'■ tury,'for 



still further reduced the value of the Irish 

A dispute arose as to the relative au- 
thority of the Irish House of Lords and 
the House of Lords of Great Britain. In 
a certain lejjfal case — it is unnecessary to 
go into details — an appeal from the de- 
cision of the law courts was made to the 
Irish House of Lords. The appeal was 
further carried to the English House of 
Lords, which set aside the decision of the 
Irish Lords. The latter protested strenu- 
ously against the English Lords assuming 
a superior authority, and presented a peti- 
tion to the king, in which they urged that, 

if the power of the judicature may, by a vote 
of the British Ltirds, be taken away from the 
Parliament of Ireland, no reason can be given 
why the same may not, in like manner, deprive 
us of the benefit of our whole Constitution. 

The answer given to this petition was 
the celebrated Declaratory Act (6 George 
I.), which enacted 

that the Kingdom of Ireland hath been, is, and 
of right ought to be subordinate unto, and de- 
pendent upon, the imperial Crown of Great 
Britain, as being inseparably united and an- 
nexed thereunto ; and that the /Cing, with the 
consent of the Lords and Commons of Great 
Britain in Parliament assembled^ hath power to 
make laws of sufficient force to bind the Kingdom 
and people of Ireland ; and that the House of 
Lords ot Ireland have not, nor ought of right 
to have, any jurisdiction to judge of, or affirm, 
or reverse any decree made in any court within 
the said Kingdom, and that all proceedings 
before the said House of Lords upon any such 
judgment or decrees are void. 

It may here be remarked that up to this 
time Parliament was by no means so in- 
dispensable an institution that prolonged 
periods could not elapse without it. From 
1585 to 1612 (twenty-seven years) there 
was no Parliament; and again from 1615 
to 1634 (nineteen years) and from 1666 to 
1692 (twenty-six years) no Parliaments 
were held. By the close of George the 
Second's reign, however, it used to meet 
every second year. 

Another matter which must be men- 
tioned is, that there was no limitation of 
time for the existence of a Parliament, 
except the life of the sovereign. Some 
Parliaments lasted for many years — that 
of George the Second was actually in ex- 
istence for thirty-three. 

The Irish constitution remained in this 
powerless and inert form down to the end 
of George the Second's reign ; then, un- 
der the awakening feeling; of the Protes- 
tants of Ireland, who had long been suf- 
fering under a denial of nearly all the 

privileges which their brethren in England 
had gained by the Revolution, many con- 
cessions affecting the constitution and 
powers of Parliament were secured. Be- 
fore detailing them, the constitution of 
both Houses of Parliament and the elec- 
torate must be described ; and it is to be 
borne in mind that, with one exception 
hereafter to be stated, the description now 
given is that also of the constitution and 
electorate of Grattan's Parliament. 

Of the House of Lords little need be 
said. It consisted of about one hundred 
and fifty to one hundred and seventy tem- 
poral peers, a large number of whom were 
absentees, and of twenty-two spiritual 
peers. A few had titles of some antiq- 
uity, but the bulk of them had received 
their peerages in recent times as a reward 
for services to the government. Most of 
the temporal peers were large landed pro- 
prietors; hence the landed interest was 
predominant in the upper House. Many 
of them were proprietors of the Parlia- 
mentary close boroughs, and could send 
their nominees to the House of Commons, 
so they exercised large influence also in 
the lower chamber. It is stated that in 
the later half of the century fifty-three 
peers nominated one hundred and twenty- 
three members of the House of Commons. 
The Duke of Leinster, Lord Shannon, and 
Lord Ely were the three largest of the 
borough owners, and they controlled no 
less than thirty-five votes in the House of 

The House of Commons consisted of 
three hundred members. In the begin- 
ning of the seventeenth century it had 
been a little over two hundred, but it was 
somewhat gradually raised as the require- 
ments of the Stuart sovereigns necessi- 
tated their securing a majority of govern- 
ment supporters, or, in other words, 
"packing Parliament." James the First 
created about forty boroughs, all with so 
small a number of electors that they were 
mere nominee boroughs. " I have made 
forty boroughs," said James when remon- 
strated with ; ** suppose I had made four 
hundred ? The more, the merrier." 

Of the three hundred members, two 
were returned from each of the thirty-two 
counties ; two by Dublin University, and 
the remaining two hundred and thirty- 
four, from one hundred and seventeen 
cities, towns, and boroughs, each of 
which returned two members. Only mem- 
bers of the Protestant Established Church 
of Ireland could sit in the House. Per- 
sons of other religious professions were 


The electorate was Protestant, and inated with the Irish Privy Coancil, 

mainly of members of the Established which even claimed the right of origioat- 

Church ; for though Nonconformists were ing money bills. The most a member of 

not specifically excluded, the test clause Parliament could do was to iotroduce the 

shut them out from the corporations by " heads " of a bill. 

which a large proportion of the members Then, to quote Mr. Lecky's descrip- 

were elected. Roman Catholics, who tion : — 

coBstituted the bulk of the population of j^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^j^.^g -^ ^.^^er House first 

the country, did not possess the trap- passed to the Irish Privy Council, which might 

chise, and consequently bad no voice in either suppress them altogether or alter them 

the legislature. as it pleased. 

The House of Commons was therefore If this body thought fit to throw them into 

purely a Protestant Church of Ireland the form of a Bill, it at once transmitted that 

body, elected by a part only of the Prot- Bill to England, where it was submitted to the 

estant inhabitants of Ireland. examination of a Committee of the English 

The franchise was a forty-shilling free- Privy Council, assisted by the English Attor- 

.10 ^ ^ ney-General, and this body, like the Irish 

,^ • , . ,. , . ^ Privy Council, had an unlimited power of sup- 

Popular representation, such as exists Jj ^, ^, '^^j -^^ *^ 

in the present day, can scarcely be said to ]£ j^? Bill passed through this second ordeal, 

have existed. In the counties, and in a it was returned with such changes, additions, 

few of the larger cities and boroughs, the and diminutions as the two Privy Councils had 

voice of the electors made itself to some made to the House of Parliament in which it 

extent felt. In the smaller boroughs there took its rise, and it then passed for the first 

were either few inhabitants or the most time to the other House. Neither Houw, 

absolute system of nomination by the bor- however, had now the power of altering it, and 

ough proprietor. ^^,^y .^«^« therefore reduced to the alternative 

Grattan, in a speech in 1793, described °^ rejecting it altogether or accepting it in the 

*!. * . lu « s.p^,?vii lu «/^j» «^a^« *^^^ gjjj^j,^ £^^^j^ ,j^ which it had been returned from 

the state of Irish representation so late £ncland* 
as that year : — 

^. ., u J J u ru 'ji u As one summarizes these facts, one 

Of three hundred members [he said] above ,. 1 ,...1 1 • » .u:- -.^-^^J* tu^ 

two hundred are returned by individuals ; from ^^?^:"* ^?^ bttle claim at his penod the 

forty to fifty are returned by ten persons ; sev- ^^\^^ Parliament had even to the name Ot 

eral of the boroughs have no resident elector a Parliament. The suffrage restricted to 

atall;someof them'havcbut one; and,onthe a section of a section of the people of 

whole, two-thirds of the representatives in the Ireland, the House composed mainly of 

House of Commons are returned by less than nominees and but little of representatives, 

one hundred persons. coming seldom in contact with the lim- 

e- T n ui « r 'ted scctioo of the people from whom 

Sir L. Parsons enables os to form an j supposed to derive its authority. 

opinmn of the relationship exis ing be- controlled by the crown by open and 

tween members and their constituents, j^^^^, y^^.^^^ destitute almost of the 

In a speech in 1794 he said : - p^^^.^^ ^f originating legislation, all iU 

What shall we say that we have been doing acts subject to the revision of the Irish 

when we go back to our representatives ? I Privy Council, which was often hostile to 

ask pardon, I forgot. A majority of this jt, and to the English Privy Council, which 

House never go back to their representativ-es. .^^s still more hostile to it, — it was but 

They do not know them ; they do not live ^^e shadow, the mere phantom of a Par- 

among them ; many of them never saw them ; .:__.-. q^.. ^^^ -ul„e -ii .u:. ^«j, *u^ 

no, nor even the places thev represent. What *'*"'^,^^-. ^ver and above all this was ine 

a mockery is this of represcntaiion ! humiliating fact that the British Parlia- 

ment not alone claimed the right to, but 

Next to the constitution of the Par- actually did legislate for Ireland, regard- 

liament, its powers must be considered, less of the Irish Parliament. 

Those powers were very limited. There Had England treated her loyal subjects 

was no Mutiny Act. The army in Ireland, and those of her own race in Ireland with 

which consisted of twelve thousand men, justice, and extended to them the liberties 

had been created by an Enj^iish act of she herself enjoyed, the outburst of feeliag 

Parliament in the reign of William the which led to the independence of the Irish 

Third, and was paid out of the hereditary Parliament might not have occurred. But 

revenue which was settled in perpetuity; even those of her own blood she treated 

and out of the control of Parliament. The in a manner too harsh to be submitted to. 
House of Commons did not possess the 

power of originating bills. Bills orig- • Vol. iv., p. 35«» 



The Habeas Corpus Act had not been 
extended to Ireland. The judges were 
dependent on the will of the sovereign. 
The taxes of the country were charged 
with pensions to kings* mistresses or fa- 
vorites. But, over and above all, Irish 
industry of every description was crushed 
out of existence, and the country pauper- 
ized and ruined under the blasting and 
withering operation of the commercial 
laws of the British Parliament. A blank 
hopelessness of improvement hung over 
the whole country. It is not to be won- 
dered at that even the Protestants of Ire- 
land, those who were directly descended 
from the English settlers, and who had 
the most to gain by allegiance to the Brit- 
ish government, should chafe under such 
a state of thraldom. Gradually there 
arose amongst them a national party. In 
the Parliament rendered necessary by the 
accession of George the Third the spirit 
of opposition became more defined. In 
the counties and in the larger or more 
open boroughs, not alone was considerable 
interest taken in the elections, but strin* 
gent tests were imposed on candidates.* 

The first object of the National party 
was to secure some control over the con- 
stitution of the Parliament, and great ef- 
forts were made to limit the duration of 
Parliaments to seven years as in England. 

For some years the struggle was carried 
on, and would probably have been much 
longer resisted, had not the necessities of 
England required additional troops. As 
an inducement to the Irish Parliament to 
supply an additional force of about three 
thousand men, the concession of octennial 
Parliaments was granted, and in 1768 an 
octennial act was allowed to pass. This 
act laid the foundation of the strength of 
the Irish National party, and other meas- 
ures were soon striven for. The inade- 
quacy of the hereditary revenue to meet 
the constantly increasing expenditure of 
the British crown, and the fact that fur- 
ther revenue could only be raised in Ire- 
land by the Irish Parliament, afforded 
fresh occasions for the Irish Parliament 
to secure further concessions from En- 

But there arose among the Irish Prot- 
estants the conviction that legislative 
independence could alone secure them all 
that they wanted. Events favored them 
in their aspirations. The desperate com- 
plications in which England was involved, 
and the constantly increasing demands 

* Lcck/s History ol England in the Eighteenth 

on her strength, led to her inability at a 
critical moment to protect Ireland from 
threatened invasion by France. Financial 
difficulties prevented an increase of the 
Irish army, and Ireland took measures to 
defend herself. 

Associations for self-defence were 
formed by the Irish gentry, who enrolled 
their Protestant tenants. Thus sprang 
into being those Irish volunteers who 
during the next few years were to take so 
important a part in the history of their 
country.* They increased rapidly in num- 
bers and improved in discipline, and 
quickly became a formidable element in 
Irish affairs. First among the results of 
the new circumstances thus developed 
was the remission by England of many of 
the commercial restrictions placed upon 
Ireland, and the grant of permission to 
trade with the British colonies ; next was 
the relief of the Dissenters from the sac- 
ramental test. 

The cry for legislative independence, 
however, grew higher. In 1780 Grattan 
introduced into the Irish House of Com- 
mons a declaration of Parliamentary inde- 
pendence, on which occasion the govern- 
ment with difficulty succeeded in having 
the debate adjourned. A modification of 
Poyning's Act, which was also sought for, 
was defeated by the government. The 
Protestant Volunteers became discon- 
tented with the slow progress of events, 
and in February, 1782, a great meeting of 
delegates from the Ulster Volunteers was 
held at Dungannon. Mr. Lecky says of 
them: — 

Elected by a popular constituency of 25,000 
armed men, free from the borough influence 
and from the corruption which tainted the 
Parliament in Dublin, animated with a con- 
sciousness of great services performed, and 
with a sincere and ardent patriotism, they were 
undoubtedly the most faithful representatives 
then sitting of the opinions and wishes of the 
Irish Protestants. 

They passed a series of resolutions, the 
most important being that a claim of any 
body of men other than the king, Lords, 
and Commons of Ireland, to make laws to 
bind this kingdom, is unconstitutional, 
illegal, and a grievance. It soon became 
evident that the government could not 
much longer resist. The crushing dis- 
asters to the English arms in America, 
and the desperate straits in which En- 
gland found herself, rendered it impossi- 
ble for her to oppose the Irish demands. 

* Catholics were not yet enrolled, but they subscribed 
liberally towards the expense. 



Lord North's government fell, and the 
Rockiriifham ministry, iocludiog Fox and 
Shelburne, succeeded it. 

Tiie new governmenC was iorced to 
deal at once with Irish demands. The 
Duke of Ponland, the new lord lieulenanl, 
in his speech to the Irish House of Com- 
mons, in April, 178Z, said : — 

He had 11 in command to inform [hem that 
the Kins, being concerned to find that discon- 
tents and jealousies are prevailing among his 
loyal subjects in Ireland, upon matters uF great 

House to take the Same intotlicii most serious 
coiuidcijtiun, in order lo such a fina] adjust- 
ment as might give mutual satisfaction to his 
kingdcims of Great Britain and Ireland. 

Hereupon Grattan moved an address 
lo the king declaring that "the crown oF 
Ireland is an imperial crown inseparably 
anneieii lo the crown of Great Uritain," 
"the kingdom of Ireland is a distinct 
kingdom, with a Parliament of her own, 
the sole legislature thereof; and there is 
no body of men competent to make laws 
lo bind this nation except the king. Lords, 
and Commons of Ireland; "and he then 
set forth the demands of the Irish Parlia- 

One was the repeal of the Declaratory 

Act of George the First, and the conse- 

Suent restoration o{ the appellate juris- 
iction of the Irish House of Lords; the 
next was the repeal of the provision in 
Poyoing's Act that Irish legislation should 
receive the sanction of the Privy Councils 
of Ireland and England ; atid the third 
was the alteration of the perpetual Irish 
Mutiny Act into a temporary act. 

In .Mav resolulioQs were passed in the 
English Parliament pledging the letfisla- 
ture to these concessions, and immediately 
afterwards they were formally made. 

This treaty was the subject of corre- 
spondence and consideration for lome 
lime;* but the idea was found impracti- 
cable, and with many matters of the 
gravest and utmost consequence left Ud* 
arrran^ed, with many obvious and impor- 
tant contingencies unprovided for, the 
Irish Parliament started on its oew ca< 
reer. Such, then, is a concise, aod I be- 
lieve an accurate, account of the earlier 
history of the Irish Parliament; aod to 
we come lo the independent Parliament 
of i7S2.or,as Mr. Paraell calls it, "Grat- 

s Parlia 

itiiutioQ of the 

: anything but a complete i^^^ 

settlement of the relationship between the xhe 

two countries. It was intended that fur- |mn, 

Iher ones should be adopted to determine mtci 

definitely and finallv the exact limits of ^in, 

the independence ol Ireland. In an ad- cour 

dress to the Icing the Irish House of „q(], 

Commons asked g^ea 

that the King would be pleased, either by com- sive. therefore. 

affected by the 
changes 1 have detailed. There were 
still three hundred members elected or 
nominated in the maoocr already de- 
scribed, all Protestants; there was still K 
purely Protestant electorate. 

But its powers were immensely en- 
larged, and its movements no longer en- 
cumbered by the Privy Councils of Ireland 
and England. In all internal Irish affairs 
the Parliament had now exclusive control. 
It had power over its own constitutioD 
and over the Franchise. The annual Ma-. 
liny Act gave it power over the Irish 
army, and it could increase or diminish 
the forces as it thought necessary, and 
thus could regulate the "consideration to 
be given " (to Great Britain) " for the pro-' 
teciion expected, and the proportion wiiich 
it would be proper lo contribute towards 
the general support of the empire." 

It had control over taxation, it regulated 
the duties on imports for the purposes of 
revenue or for the protection of oati*e 
industries, it fixed the bounties for the 
of Irish manufactures, 
had absolule control over iaod-owo- 
ipand the tenure of land; over edu- 
<n: over the measures for the main- 
nee of order and the preservation of 
public peace. All these, and the 
Ireds ol other mailers relating to the 
nal condiiioD of the country, were 
in its exclusive control — subject, of 
se, to the royal assent as signi^ed 
:r the great seal of England. One 
ge and comprehec 

ir thro 

made K 

I of I. 


r of 11 

! Par- 

: Chief Govti 

of Ireland, or by C< 
a treaty between the kingdoms of Great Britain . j^^ , 
and Ireland, to settle lit prtdn Umili eflhi m ki f.>i 
indeptadeiKt rtqairtJ, the consideration to be lieBifium 
given for the protection expected, and the pro- I ^,^ yZ^a 
portion which it would be proj>er for Ireland o.^f ac^m 
to contribute towards the general support of prtrnKyt 
the Empire. I unaoibiiu 



a security that no violent legislation would 
be aimed against the established religion, 
and the predominance of landed interest 
in both Houses was a guarantee that no 
disturbance of the existing land system 
would be even tried. 

It must, however, be here remarked 
that the actual independence of the Irish 
Parliament was subject to one important 
qualification. One indispensable essen- 
tial to Irish legislation remained in the 
control of the English government, and 
that was the manner in which the royal 
assent to Irish bills was signified. No 
Irish bill could pass into law until it was 
returned to Ireland under the Great Seal 
of England. That seal was in the custody 
of the lord chancellor of England, who 
was responsible to the English govern- 
ment and Parliament for every use he 
made of it. The operation of this condi- 
tion is well described by Mr. Parsons in 
the Irish House of Commons in 1789: — 

It gives the English Parliament a kind of 
negative upon our laws, but by such a remote 
and severe action as there is no reason to fear 
it will ever be abused. That Parliament, 
having recognized our right to legislate exclu- 
sively for this kingdom, their own law, as well 
as their own prudence, would not suffer them 
to impeach their Chancellor for putting that 
Seal to any Irish Act, except in the single case 
of its tending to destroy the unity of the ex- 
ecutive power, in which alone the connection 
of these kingdoms exists. 

This requirement was the security the 
English had that the Irish Parliament 
could never pass a law to sever the execu- 
tive or impair the connection of the two 
kingdoms; but it is probable, or at least 
possible, that the power might have been 
used in other cases of real gravity. 

As regards external affairs, the author- 
ity or power of the Irish Parliament was 
by no means so clear or so real. It has 
been generally conceded that it might 
take an independent line about anything. 
It might exhort the king to make war 
when the views of England were pacific, 
or it might refuse to join in a war which 
England felt coerced to enter. It might 
also declare against treaties entered into 
by the English government, and refuse to 
ratify commercial articles. It is undeni- 
able that any of these things was within 
its right; but it is equally beyond ques- 
tion that, if their exercise in any way 
endangered the empire, England would 
not have tolerated them. The Irish Par- 
liament, for instance, legislated on and 
controlled the trade of Ireland with the 
colopies, but if it in any way exceeded 

the terms or conditions upon which En- 
gland allowed such trade, such legislation 
would not have been allowed to have any 

As a matter of fact, the Irish Parlia- 
ment seldom discussed foreign politics, 
but followed England*s lead with readi- 
ness and cordiality, and on more than one 
occasion declared its intention to stand or 
fall with Great Britain. In 1793, when 
France declared war against England, an 
address to the king was moved express- 
ing the concurrence of Parliament in his 
action, and informing him that he might 
rely upon its support. 

The truth was that the government of 
Ireland could not have gone on unless it 
followed Great Britain implicitly in mat- 
ters of imperial policy. 

In one important matter the new Irish 
Constitution was deficient — namely, the 
system of ministerial responsibility. No 
counterpart to the English system was in- 
troduced. There were no changes of gov- 
ernment, as in England, consequent on 
an adverse vote in the House of Com- 
mons. The changes of government that 
took place in Ireland were consequent on 
changes in EoTgland, or on the decisions 
of the English Cabinet, and not on the 
defeat of government proposals or policy 
in the Irish House of Commons. 

The policy of the government in Ire- 
land was entirely regulated by the English 
Cabinet. Successive viceroys came over 
to carry out the policy decided on in En- 
gland. The English prime minister dic- 
tated to the viceroy, the representative of 
the king, what he might do, and what he 
might or might not say in his speeches to 
Parliament. He was authorized to grant 
concessions or oppose demands as ap- 
peared best in the eyes of the English 
prime minister — practically he was the 
instrument in the hands of the English 
prime minister for the government of Ire- 
land. Reams of correspondence in the 
State paper offices prove how close and 
systematic was the intercommunication. 
The difficulty the viceroy had was to carry 
out his instructions, as he had to work 
through the medium of the Irish Parlia- 
ment; but with the large number of close 
boroughs, and with a large patronage, he 
was more or less able to influence the 
action of Parliament by a shameful sys- 
tem of bribery and corruption. 

It is now rather a profitless inquiry 
whether a Parliament with such a consti- 
tution and so circumstanced was indepen- 
dent. The real reply to the question I 
think is, that if the possession of the right 



to come to decisions on all matters of 
policy, imperial or national, is indepen- 
dence, then the Irish Parliament was in- 
dependent ; but if, in addition to this, the 
power of giving effect to those decisions is 
to be considered a part of independence, 
then the Irish Parliament was not inde- 

Nor is the question, after all, of any 
real importance in comparison with the 
question why this Irish Constitution of 
1782, this acme of political wisdom, whose 
restitution is soon to be demanded, had 
so short-lived an existence. ** English 
gold '' would be the answer given by Irish 
Nationalists; and it is incontestable that 
a wholesale system of bribery was prac- 
tised by the British government to secure 
the Union. But no amount of English 
gold, or places, or peerages, could have 
secured the extinction of the Irish Parlia- 
ment if that institution had possessed a 
genuine vitality or held out any hope of 
being the solution of that long-felt prob- 
lem, the government of Ireland. 

The action of the Irish Parliament on 
two occasions is held by some to have 
driven the English government to the con- 
clusion that a separate Irish Parliament 
was not a workable form of government 
for Ireland. 

The first of these occasions was in 1785 
— after only three years* independence — 
when Pitt, who was anxious to remove 
the restrictions that affected the trade of 
Ireland with England, devised a scheme 
which was to take the form of a treaty, 
and which would have placed each coun- 
try on a *' favored nation " footing. 

It was proposed to allow the importa- 
tion of the produce of all other countries 
through Great Britain into Ireland, or 
through Ireland into Great Britain, with- 
out any increase of duty on that account. 
It was proposed as to any article produced 
or manufactured in Ireland or in England, 
where the duties were then different, on 
importation into either country, to reduce 
those duties in the kingdom where they 
were highest to the lower scale. And it 
was asked that where gross hereditary 
revenue in Ireland should rise above a 
fixed sum, the surplus should be appro- 
priated towards the support of the naval 
force of the empire. These propositions 
passed the Irish Parliament, and were 
laid before the English House of Com- 
mons by Pitt. One of the articles of the 
proposed treaty was that the precarious 
grant to Ireland of a right to trade with 
the British colonies or plantations should 
be made perpetual. And in the course of 

the debate it was objected that, Ireland 
being an independent kingdom, there was 
no security for her adopting the regula- 
tions made by Great Britain for her trade 
and navigation with those same colonies. 
To obviate this objection, an article was 
proposed by Great Britain, stipulating 
that, so long as Ireland continued to 
trade with the British colonies and plan- 
tations, she would adopt the regulations 
of trade and navigation imposed by the 
British Parliament on British subjects in 
carrying on the same trade, and that 
whenever Ireland did not choose so to 
do, for so much the treaty should be at ao 

This article was resisted by the Irish 
Parliament in the angriest and bitterest 
manner, as an infringement on Irish in- 
dependence, and **an insidious attempt 
to reclaim the legislative supremacy of 
Great Britain.** 

Grattan said : — 

We are to agree to subscribe whatever laws 
the Parliament shall prescribe respecting navi- 
gation. We are to have no legislative power. 
Here there is an end of your free trade and of 
your free constitution. 

The proposals were indignantly re- 
jected, and the Irish Parliament came to 
a breach with the British Parliament on 
the important question of trade and navi- 

The second and more serious occasion 
on which the Irish Parliament differed 
from the British Parliament was on the 
regency question. Towards the end of 
1788 George the Third became mentally 
unfit to transact business, and the ap- 
pointment of a regent became necessary. 
The English Parliament met in Oecens- 
ber. Both parties in it agreed that the 
Prince of Wales should be appointed re* 
gent, but differed as to the conditions on 
which the regency should be held. Fox 
asserted that the regent should, of natu- 
ral right, inherit and enjoy all the rights 
of the sovereign. Pitt, then prime min- 
ister, insisted that Parliament should ap- 
point the regent, with such limitations and 
restrictions on his powers as it might 
choose to impose. Pitt carried his point 
by resolutions in the House of Commons, 
and proceeded to introduce a bill accord- 

In February, tjSc}, the Irish Parliament 
met. On the day after its meeting, and 
while the question was still under discus- 
sion in England, Grattan urged instant 
action, otherwise ** it would appear to the 
world as if the measure of another assen- 



bij was to be made the tqIc of their 
dact." He opposed Pitt's ' 
question. Speaking ia the i 
people of Ireland, he said: — 

be invtsied with tbefull reail power — royal ■ the address, li 

reaal po 
le idea oi limitatii 
I attack on the necetsary 
D the King 

of royally on him t It is an act of insanity to 
01 tne I commit (he two Lingdoms by pressing the reso- 
of the I lution proposed. 

The resolutions, nevertheless, were 

id must P^*'*''" Selected memljers ol the two 

to London, and presented 

i„e hiB 

He first moved resoluli 
address to the prince, in' 
unrestricted regency. 

The attorney-general, FilzKibbon, after- 
wards Lord Clare, controverted Grattao's 
arguments, and his speeches are of great 
interest, as showing what was his opinion 
as law officer of the crown, and what the 
opinions of tbe lord chancellor and other 
judges whom he consulted on the real po- 
aitioDof the 1 rish coosliluiioo : — 

I maintain that the Crown of Ireland and 
the Crown of England are inseparably and in- 
dissoiubly united. Secondly, I do maintain 
thai tbe Irish Parliament is perfectly and totally 
independent of the British Pailiament ; the first 
posiijon is your security, tbe second your free- 
He pointed out the necessiij that ex- 
isted for tbe stamp of tbe great seal oo 
Irish le);is1alioa, and he argued that the 
address to the prince could not confer on 
him the shadow of royal power, that he 
could only be made regent by an act of 

Nevertheless, Gratian carried his pro- 
posals, and presented the address to the 
viceroy, to submit lo the prince. The 
viceroy, in reply to the request, said that, 

under the impressions which be felt of public 
duly, aud ui the oalh of office which he had 
taken, he was obliged to decline transmitting 
their address into Great Britain, 

Grallan then moved thai a competent 
number of members on behalf of the Irish 
Parliament should proceed to England, 
and present the address to the prince. 

Once more the attorney -general coo- 
tested the matter: — 

If we persist in asserting this claim, the two 
countries will be committed more holly than 
ever ; for, if the address of both Houses can 
invest the Prince of Wales with Royal powers 
in this country, the same address Could convey 
the same powers to Louis XVI. of France, or 
to his Holiness the Pupe, or to the right hon- 
orable mover of this resolution. Is there a 
man in England who will venture to tell his 
Royal Highness that the address of the Lords 
and Commons of Ireland can confer the shadow 

was recovering. The prince was obliged 
to delay his final answer in consequence 
of the improvement in his father's health. 
A few day's later the king's health was 
completely restored, and the necessity for 
a regency was at an end. 

It cannot, I think, be doubted that the 
action of the Irish Parliament was a viola- 
tion of the spirit of a fundamental maxim 
of the imperial Constitution. The whole 
theory and practice of (he Constitution was 
that the executive power in both countries 
should be vested in one and the same per- 
son, and should be held with the same pow> 
ers. And yet, in this vital question, the 
Parliament of Ireland asserted its right to 
go iisown way. It practically asserted its 
right to select as regent whom it pleased, 
and though it selected tbe same person as 
the English Parliament, it conferred OQ 
him difierent powers from those the En- 
glish regent would have had. Thus the 
executive authority in the two countries 
would have been different. 

I am not disposed to attach too much 
importance to either of these two episodes 
— doubtless they had their etTect — more 
especially the latter one ; but had nothing 
else taken place they would not have 
brought about the Union. 

Tbe real cause of the failure of the in- 
dependent Irish Parliament of 1782 lay 
much deeper. It lay in (he fact that it 
was (he Parliament of the minority; the 
political power, the established religion, 
and the proprietorship of laud were all in 
the hands of (hat minorKy. It lay still 
more in the fact that the Irish Parliament 
was not able (o preserve order, or main- 
tain the peace in Ireland, and, finally, it 
lay in the fact that i[s very existence could 
nol have beea maintained without exter- 
nal assis(ance. 

I think (his is to be traced as clearly as 
possible in the transactions and lejtisla- 
tion of the Irish Parliament, coupled with 
the events that occurred ia Ireland. 

From (he very outset of its existence 
Grallan'a Parliament was propped up by 
coercive legislation. 

One of the arguments used in the pres- 
ent day against the Parliament of the 
United Kingdom is the number of coer- 
cion acts it has passed to preserve order 
in Ireland. If this argument is worth 



aDytbiDg, it is one which applies with in- 
tinitely {greater force to the Irish Parlia- 
meDt of 1782 — the coercion acts passed 
in its short career being out of all propor- 
tion, both as regards number and severity, 
to those passed by the Parliament of the 
United Kingdom.* 

The Irish Parliament, when it gained 
its independence, found in existence a 
very stringent act against ** tumultuous 
risings," etc. 

In 1783 it passed an act against ** hough- 
ing " or hamstringing, and for giving com- 
pensation from the county to the person 

In 1787 it passed an act very equivalent 
to the special police acts now in force, 
and another which enacted, ** If any per- 
sons, to the number of twelve, meet in an 
unlawful and riotous manner, and do not 
disperse when required by a justice of the 
peace, in one hour, they shall be deemed 
felons, and shall sufiEer death without ben- 
efit of clergy." 

In spite of these powers, however, as 
years went on the state of the country 
grew more disturbed. In 1790 the or- 
ganization of the Defenders was started. 
In the followingyearthesociety of United 
Irishmen came into notoriety. All these 
3*ears, too, the question of concession to 
the Roman Catholics was becoming more 
and more urgent, and being more and 
more hotly pressed. 

Two letters of Mr. Pitt, hitherto I be- 
lieved unpublished, will here speak for 
themselves, and will show plainly how the 
real causes of the Union were already at 

I must preface them by the remark that 
the sympathies of the British Cabinet 
were witii the Protestant party in Ireland. 
Dundas wrote to Lord Westmorland, the 
lord lieutenant, in January, 1792: — 

However much we may differ in the means, 
we have one common object in view — the 
prosperity of Ireland, and the strength of Gov- 
ernment under a Protestant establishment. 

Here is the essential part of the first of 
Pitt's two letters which I have referred 
to. It is addressed to the lord lieutenant, 
and dated the 29th of January, 1792. Re- 

* Over thirty coercion acts were passed in the eigh- 
teen ycATi of its existence, besides nve acts indemnify- 
ing persons fur coercive proceedings not allowed by 
law. It i.-ivery remarkable that almost exact precedents 
for the provisions of the present Prevention of Crimes 
Act and Police Acts are to be found in the acts of the 
Irish Parliament, r.^ , the Curfew clause, the charging 
ol police on a locality, etc 

t These letters are in the Record Tower at Dublin 
Castle, in the Fane Collection, and are both in Pittas 
own handwriting. 

f erring to the action of the Cabinet on the 
subject of concession to the Roman Catb* 
olics, he says : — 

We have thought only of what was the most 
likely plan to preserve the security and tran* 
quillity of a British and Protestant interest. 

In the present situation I am so far from 
wishing you to go farther than you propose 
that I really think it would be unwise to at- 
tempt it. If any (attempt) is made now or 
hereafter to gain more by force or menace than 
Parliament is disposed to give, we must and 
will resist it, or there is an end to all govern* 

As to what may be wise for the future, I still 
believe that, not excluding a possibility even 
of further concessions, if circumstances should 
admit of it, would be the best security for the 
Protestant interest But I have no difficulty 
in saying to you that my opinion will never be 
for bringing forward any concession beyond 
what the public mind and the opinion of those 
who are the supporters of British government 
or its present establishment are reconciled to. 

I may have my own opinion as to expediency, 
but I am inclined myself to follow theirs, not 
to attempt to force it, and, as I have said 
already, every tumultuous attempt to gain more 
than Guvernment or Parliament mav be dis- 
posed to give must always be resisted. 

Any pledge, however, against anything more 
in future seems to me to be in every view use- 
less and dangerous, and it is what, on such a 
question, no prudent government can concur 
in. I say nothing on the idea of resisting all 
concessions, because I am in hopes there is no 
danger of that line being taken. 

If it were, I should really think it the most 
/<Ua/ measure that could be contrived for the 
destruction ultimately of every object we wish t9 

The second and more important letter 
is dated some eleven months later. It is 
as follows : — 

Downing Street : November 18, i79i* 

Dear Westmorland, — . . . . The idea of 
the present fermentation gradually bringing 
both parties to think of a union with this 
country has long been in my mind. I hardly 
dare flatter myself with the hu|>e of its taking 
place, but I believe it, though itself not easy 
to be accomplished, to be the only solution for 
other and greater difficulties. 

The admission of Catholics to a share of 
suffrage could not then be dangerotis. The 
Protestant interest, in point of power, property, 
and Church establishment, would be secure, 
because the decided majority of the Supreme 
Legislature would necessarily be Protestant; 
and the great ground of argument on the part 
of the Catholics would i)e done away ; as com- 
pared with the rest of the Empire, they would 
become a minority. 

* The «*ords in italics are onderlined by PitL 



You must judge when and to whom the idea 
can be confided. It must certainly requi re great 
delicacy and management, but f am heartily 
glad that it is at least in your thoughts. 

Yours ever, 
W. Pitt. 

In the followiDg year (1793) the first of 
the great coocessions to the Roman Cath- 
olics was made in the extension to them 
of the franchise. In its bosom it carried 
all others ; for once the 40s, freeholders 
realized their power, the admission of 
Roman Catholics to seats in Parliament 
roust sooner or later have come to pass, 
Parliamentary reform been carried, and 
the ascendency of the Protestant interest 
in the Irish Parliament doomed. The 
real Irish party — the United Irishmen — 
were not willing, however, to wait for the 
slow working of constitutional action, and 
issued writs calling a really representative 
convention of the people at Athlone. The 
Parliament was obliged to take action in 
self-defence; and in the same year that 
the franchise was extended to the Roman 
Catholics, an act was passed prohibiting 
the holding of any sort of representative 
convention, and, as the country was very 
disturbed, another act prohibiting the im- 
portation of arms or gunpowder, or their 
removal without license. 

It is evident to us now, and it must 
have been in part evident then, that the 
power of the independent Irish Parliament 
was rapidly slipping away from it. 

In 1796, *' traitorous insurrections hav- 
ing for some time past arisen in various 
parts of the country,'* it became "indis- 
pensably necessary to add strength to the 
law," and "the Insurrection" Act was 
passed. A plea for remedial legislation 
was made by Sir L. Parsons on account 
of the poverty of the people, but it was 

The act was described as one which 
could not have been exceeded by the code 
of Draco. The administration of illegal 
oaths was made liable to the penalty of 
death. Where a witness or peace officer 
was murdered or maimed, a money com- 
pensation might be awarded from the 
county rates. Strangers might be arrest- 
ed and imprisoned. In "proclaimed'* 
districts anybody found out of his house 
between sunset and sunrise, or who, if his 
house was visited at night by a magis- 
trate, was not found at home, and who 
could not satisfactorily account for him- 
self, might be sent by order of two magis- 
trates to serve on board his Majesty's 
fleet. Vendors of seditious papers were 
liable to similar punishment. 

Fearfully stringent as were these pro- 
visions, things had gone too far even for 
them to check the rampant disorder of the 

I n 1 797 a secret committee of the House 
of Commons reported that they found that 

the society of United Irishmen (amounting to 
nearly 100,000 men), under the pretext of pro- 
moting a Parliamentary reform and what they 
called emancipation of the Catholics, har- 
bored a design to disunite this country from 
Great Britain, to overthrow the present Con- 
stitution, and to establish in its stead a repub- 
lican form of government. 

In the same year the Habeas Corpus 
Act was suspended. 

In 1798 power bad passed from the 
Irish Parliament. The rebellion broke 
out. English militia and troops had to 
be sent over to quell it. Martial law was 
declared. After a severe struggle, and 
several pitched battles, costing thousands 
of lives, the authority of the imperial 
crown was reasserted, but the government 
of Ireland by an Irish Parliament was 
irreparably discredited and condemned. 

This narrative of facts discloses suffi- 
ciently plainly the real reason why the 
Irish Parliament of 1782 came to an un- 
timely end. Not alone had it proved it- 
self incapable of maintaining order in 
Ireland, but it had almost involved the 
empire in its fate, and so far from proving 
itself to be a solution of the problem of 
governing Ireland, it proved itself to be a 
source of danger to the empire. 

After this complete collapse it could 
not too quickly be brought to an end, and 
in 1800 the Union was carried, and the 
experiment of Grattan's Parliament came 
to an end. 

I have endeavored to give a concise, 
clear, and also a fair and impartial account 
of the Irish Parliamentary constitution of 
1 782, and I have sought to render it clearer 
by confining myself to it solely, and avoid" 
ing many extraneous matters. 

I have endeavored to let the facts in its 
career speak as much as possible for 
themselves, being anxious to let the peo- 
ple draw their own conclusions from 

My own firm conviction is that any form 
of separate Parliamentary government for 
Ireland would be absolutely fatal to the 
peace, to say nothing of the welfare, of 
that country. 

I do not believe that the democracy of 
England would be willing to give Ireland 
the power of " boycotting " or closing her 
markets against English goods. Nor oo 



I believe that the English democracy 
would sanction the disintegration of the 

The experiment of the constitution of 
1782 was, I think, foredoomed to failure, 
as indeed every similar experiment must 
be, from the very circumstances of Ire- 
land; for though it may be argued that 
an Irish Parliament now would represent 
the majority of the population of Ireland, 
3'et it must be borne in mind that in cer- 
tain respects the minority is probably 
quite as powerful as the majority, and that 
both on patriotic and religious grounds it 
would have the active sympathy of the 
English people. 

Between absolute incorporation or union 
of Ireland with England and complete 
separation or independence there is, I am 
thoroughly convinced, no /^x//;f^ arrange- 
ment possible. England roust soon make 
up her mind which it is to be. 

Henry Jephson. 

From ChambeiV JoumaL 


Frances went to Portland Place next 
day. She went with great reluctance, 
feeling that to be thus plunged into the 
atmosphere of the other side was intoler- 
able. Had she been able to feel that 
there was absolute right on either side, it 
would not have been so difficult for her. 
But she knew so little of the facts of the 
case, and her natural prepossessions were 
so curiously double and variable, that 
every assault was painful. To be swept 
into the faction of the other side, when the 
first impassioned sentiment with which 
she had felt her mother's arms around her 
had be^un to sink inevitably into that 
silent judi;ment of another individual's 
ways and utterances which is the hin- 
drance of reason to every enthusiasm, was 
doubly hard. She was resolute indeed 
that not a word or insinuation against her 
mother should be permitted in her pres- 
ence. But she herself had a hundred 
little doubts and questions in her mind, 
traitors whose very existence no one must 
suspect but herself. Her natural revul- 
sion from the thought of being forced into 
partisanship gave her a feeling of strong 
opposition and resistance against every* 
thin^ that might be said to her, when she 
stepped into the solemn house in Port- 
land Place, where everything was so large, 

empty, and still, so different from her 
mother's warm and cheerful abode. The 
manner in * which her aunt met her 
strengthened this feeling. On their pre- 
vious meeting in Lady Markham*s pres* 
ence, the greeting given her by Mrs. 
Cavendish had chilled her through and 
through. She was ushered in now to the 
same still room, with its unused look, 
with all the chairs in their right places, 
and no litter of habitation about; but her 
aunt came to her with a different aspect 
from that which she had borne before. 
She came quickly, almost with a rush, and 
took the shrinking girl into her arms. 
** My dear little Frances, mv dear child, 
my brother's own little girl !'* she cried, 
kissing her again and again. Her ascetic 
countenance was transfigured, her gray 
eyes warmed and shone. 

Frances could not make any eager re- 
sponse to this warmth. She did her best 
to look the gratification which she knew 
she ought to have felt, and to return her 
aunt's caresses with due fervor; but ia 
her heart there was a chill of which she 
felt ashamed, and a sense of insincerity 
which was very foreign to her nature. 
AIJ through these strange experiences, 
Frances felt herself insincere. She bad 
not known how to respond even to her 
mother, and a cold sense that she was 
among strangers had crept in even in the 
midst of the bewildering certainty that 
she was with her nearest relations and in 
her mother's house. In present circuoi- 
stances, " How do you do, Aunt Char- 
lotte ? " was the only commonplace phrase 
she could find to say, in answer to the 
effusion of affection with which she was 

'* Now we can talk," said Mrs. Caveo* 
dish, leading her with both hands in hers 
to a sofa near the fire. • '* While my lady 
was here, it was impossible. You roust 
have thought me cold, when my heart was 
just running over to my dear brother*s 
favorite child. But I could not open my 
heart before her ; I never could do it. 
And there is so much to ask you. For 
though I would not let her know I had 
never heard, you know very well, my dear, 
I can't deceive you. O Frances, why 
doesn't he write ? Surely, surely, he roust 
have known I would never betray him — 
to her^ or any of her race." 

** Aunt Charlotte, please remember yoo 
are speaking of " 

*' Oh, 1 can't stand on ceremony with 
you ! I can't do it. Constance, that had 
been always with her, that was another 
thing. But you, my dear, dear child I 



And you must not stand on ceremony 
with me. I can understand you, if no one 
else can. And as for expecting you to 
love her and honor her and so forth, a 
woman whom you have never seen be- 
fore, who has spoiled your dear father's 
life " 

Frances had put up her hand to stay 
this flood, but in vain. With eyes that 
flashed with excitement, the quiet, still 
gray woman was strangelv transformed. 
A vivacious and animatecf person when 
moved by passion is not so alarming as a 
reserved and silent one. There was a 
force of fury and hatred in her tone and 
looks which appalled the girl. She inter- 
rupted almost rudely, insisting upon being 
beard, as soon as Mrs. Cavendish paused 
for breath. 

" You must not speak to me so ; you 
must not — you shall not ! I will not hear 

Frances was quiet too, and there was 
in her also the vehemence of a tranquil 
nature transported beyond all ordinary 

Mrs. Cavendish stopped and looked at 
her iixedly, then suddenly changed her 
tone. "Your father might have written 
to me,'' she said, " he might have writ- 
ten to me. He is my only brother, and I 
am all that remains of the family^ now that 
Minnie, poor Minnie, who was so much 
mixed up with it all, is gone. It was nat- 
ural enough that he should go away. I 
always understood him, if nobody else 
did; but he might have trusted his own 
family, who would never, never have be- 
trayed him. And to think that 1 should 
owe my knowledge of him now to that ill- 
grown, ill-conditioned O Frances, it 

was a bitter pill ! To owe my knowledge 
of my brother and of you and everything 
about you to Markham — 1 shall never be 
able to forget how bitter it was." 

** You forget : Markham is my brother, 
aunt Charlotte." 

" He is nothing of the sort. He is your 
half brother, if you care to keep up the 
connection at all. But some people don't 
think much of it. It is the father's side 
that counts. But don't let us argue about 
that. Tell me how is your father ? Tell 
me all about him. I love you dearly, for 
his sake; but above everything, I want to 
hear about him. I never had any other 
brother. How is he, Frances? To think 
that I should never have seen or heard of 
him for twelve long years!" 

" My father is — very well," said Fran- 
ces, with a sort of strangulation both in 
heart and voice, not knowing what to say. 

"♦Very wellT Oh, that is not much 
to satisfy me with, after so long I Where 
is he — and how is he living — and have 
you been a very good child to him, Fran- 
ces? He deserves a good child, for he 
was a good son. Oh, tell me a little about 
him. Did he tell you everything about 
us? Did he say how fond and how proud 
we were of him? and how happy we used 
to be at home all together? He must 
have told you. If you knew how I go 
back to those old days ! We were such a 
happy, united family. Life is always dis- 
appointing. It does not bring you what 
you think, and it is not everybody that 
has the comfort we have in looking back 
upon their youth. He must have told you 
of our happy life at home." 

Frances had kept the secret of her 
father's silence from every one who had a 
right to blame him for it. But here she 
felt herself to be bound by no such pre- 
caution. His sister was on his side. It 
was in his defence and in passionate par- 
tisanship for him that she had assailed 
the mother to the child. Frances had 
even a momentary angry pleasure in tell- 
ing the truth without mitigation or soften- 
ing. ** I don't know whether you will 
believe me," she said, ** but my father told 
me nothing. He never said a word to me 
about his past life or any one connected 
with him; neither you nor — any one." 
Though she had the kindest heart in the 
world, and never had harmed any one, it 
gave Frances almost a little pang of pleas- 
ure to deliver this blow. 

Mrs. Cavendish received it, so to speak, 
full in the face, as she leaned forward, 
eagerly waiting what Frances had to say. 
She looked at the girl aghast, the color 
changing in her tace, a sudden exclama* 
tion dying away in her throat. But after 
the first keen sensation, she drew herself 
together and regained her self-control. 
** Yes, yes," she cried ; ** I understand. 
He could not enter into anything about 
us without telling you of — others. He 
was always full of good feeling — and so 
just 1 No doubt, he thought if you heard 
our side, you should hear the other. But 
when you were coming away, when he 
knew you must hear everything, what 
message did he give you for me ? " 

In sight of the anxiety which shone ia 
her aunt's eyes, and the eager bend to- 
wards her of the rigid, straight figure not 
used to any yielding, Frances began to 
feel as if she were the culprit. ** Indeed," 
she said hesitating, ** he never said any- 
thing. 1 came here in ignorance. I never 
knew I had a mother till Constance came 



— Dor any relations. I heard of my aunt 
for the first time from — mamma; and 
then to conceal my ignorance, I asked 
Markham; I wanted no one to know/' 

It was some minutes before Mrs. Cav- 
endish spoke. Her eyes slowly filled with 
tears, as she kept them fixed upon Fran- 
ces. The blow went very deep; it struck 
at illusions which were perhaps more dear 
than anything in her actual existence. 
"You heard of me for the first time from 

Oh, that was cruel, that was cruel of 

Edward,'' she cried, clasping her bands 
together — ** of me for the first time. And 
you had to ask Markham I And I, that 
was his favorite sister, and that never for- 
got him, never for a day ! ** 

Frances put her own soft young hands 
upon those which her aunt wrung convul- 
sively together in the face of this sudden 
pang. " I think he had tried to forget his 
old life altogether," she said ; '* or perhaps 
it was because he thought so much of it 
that he could not tell me — I was so ig- 
norant! He would have been obliged to 
tell me so much, if he had told me any- 
thing. Aunt Charlotte, I don*t think he 
meant to be unkind." 

Mrs. Cavendish shook her head; then 
she turned upon her comforter with a sort 
of indignation. "And you," she said, 
"did you never want to know? Did you 
never wonder how it was that he was 
there, vegetating in a little foreign place, 
a man of his gifts ? Did you never ask 
whom you belonged to, what friends you 
had at home? 1 am afraid," she cried 
suddenly, rising to her feet, throwing off 
the girl's hand, which had still held hers, 
"that you are like your mother in your 
heart as well as your face — a self-con- 
tained, self-satisfying creature. You can- 
not have been such a child to him as he 
had a right to, or you would have known 
all — all there was to know." 

She went to the fire as she spoke and 
took up the poker and struck the smoul- 
dering coals into a blaze with agitated 
vehemence, shivering nervously, with ex- 
citement rather than cold. "Of course 
that is how it is," she said. "You must 
have been thinking of your own little 
affairs, and not of his. He must have 
thought he would have his child to confide 
in and rely upon, and then have found 
out that she was not of his nature at all, 
nor thinking of him; and then he would 
shut his heart clos:e — oh, 1 know him so 
well! that is so like Edward — and say 
nothing, nothing ! That was always easier 
to him than saying a little. It was every- 
thing or nothing with him always. And 

when he found you took no interest, be 
would shut himself up. But there's Coq* 
stance," she cried after a pause, "Coo* 
stance is like our side. He will be able 
to pour out his heart, poor Edward, to 
her; and she will understand him. There 
is some comfort in that at least." 

If Frances had felt a momentary pleas- 
ure in giving pain, it was now repaid to 
her doublv. She sat where her aunt had 
left her, following with a quiver of con- 
sciousness everything she said. Ah^^es ; 
she had been full of her own little affairs. 
She had thought of the mayoDoaises, but 
not of any spiritual needs to which she 
could minister. She had not felt any 
wonder that a man of his gifts should live 
at Bordighera, or any vehemence of curi- 
osity as to the family she belonged to, or 
what his antecedents were. She bad 
taken it all quite calmly, accepting as the 
course of nature the absence of relations 
and references to home. She had known 
nothing else, and she had not thought 
of anything else. Was it her fault all 
through? Had she been a disappoint- 
ment to her father, not worthy of him 
or his confidence? The tears gathered 
slowly in her eyes. And when Mrs. Cav- 
endish suddenly introduced the name of 
Constance, Frances, too, sprang to her 
feet with a sense of the intolerable, which 
she could not master. To be told that 
she had failed, might be bearable; but 
that Constance, Constance ! should turn 
out to possess all that she wanted, to gain 
the confidence she had not been able to 
gain, that was more than flesh and blood 
could bear. She sprang up hastily, and 
began with trembling hands to button up 
to her throat the close-fitting out-door 
jacket which she had undone. Mrs. Cav- 
endish stood, her face lit up with the 
ruddy blaze of the fire, shooting out sharp 
arrows of words, with her back turned to 
her young victim; while Frances behind 
her, in as great agitation, prepared to 
bring the conference and controversy to a 

From Temple Bar. 

The religious opinions of Prince Bis- 
marck afford a key to his whole character 
and policy. His creed is simple, and 
almost entirely confined to a belief in God 
and the immortality of the soul. He ac- 

* LivxNG Acs, No. 2136. 



cepts the other doctrines of the Lutheran 
Church ; that is, he does not reject them ; 
but they have exercised but little influence 
over his mind, while these two have been 
the motive, guiding, and restaining power 
of all his public actions. They are not 
the last vestiges of a faith that was learned 
in childhood and has been wasting away 
ever since, but convictions deliberately 
adopted in his prime, in which he found a 
solution for all the great ethical problems 
of human life. The God in whom he be- 
lieves is a living God, who rules the his- 
tory of the present as well as the past, and 
who *' has predestined the German nation 
to something good and great." 

To a man holding such convictions 
truth must possess a paramount impor- 
tance. We do not here refer to the truth- 
fulness which a man of honor is scrupu- 
lous to exercise in his private dealings, for 
every diplomatist and statesman is occa- 
sionally placed in a position where it is 
necessary for him to deceive. Questions 
may be put to him in such a manner that 
simply to refuse an answer would be to 
betray a secret of State. On such un- 
pleasant occasions, and they are rarer 
even in diplomacy than is generally sup- 
posed, it is he who is habitually truthful 
who is most likely to say what is distinctly 
untrue. He knows it is his duty to mis- 
lead, and he does not care to salve his 
conscience with a sophistry. It is the 
man who has never realized the distinc- 
tion between truth and falsehood whose 
habit it is to make a lie and love it, who 
is fertile in subtleties and equivocations 
which can never be brought home to him, 
and who knows exactly how to 

keep the word of promise to the ear, 
And break it to the hope. 

It was not to this personal truthfulness 
that we referred in speaking of Prince 
Bismarck's opinion that truth must pos- 
sess a paramount importance. If this 
commonplace modern life of ours is really 
the work of God, we must endeavor to un- 
derstand it. If we wilfully blind ourselves 
to any phase of it, however terrible or 
however disgusting, we are rejecting a 
part of his teaching; if we fly from it to a 
world of pretty theories and so called 
ideals, we may be eloquent in lip-service 
of his name, but we in tact prefer our own 
vain imaginings to his design. The man 
who is sincerely convinced that the earth 
is the Lord's will regard it as the fleld in 
which he has to labor, and all that it pro- 
duces as the tools he has to use, and he 
will feel that the more fully he is ac- 


quainted with the real nature of both, the 
better his work will be. 

If he is a novelist he will not flx his 
eyes, as M. Zola does almost exclusively, 
on the physical symptoms of moral dis- 
ease, nor will he, like other less gifted 
writers, represent this large world of ours 
as a ball-room, in which none but the soft- 
est voices are to be heard, and in which 
the only business of any importance is 
that of marrying and giving in marriage. 
He will recognize that outside the lady's 
bower and the lover's retreat, outside the 
squalid chamber and the drunkard's den, 
there pulses a large, healthy, and earnest 
human life which takes but little heed of 
any of them, and he will endeavor to bal- 
ance his imagination in accordance with 
the standard nature herself supplies. 

In the same way, if he is a politician, he 
will care but little for party watchwords 
and nothing for party cries ; he will not 
court the applause of the moment, nor be 
eager to win the sweet voices of the 

Such a statesman Prince Bismarck 
seems to us to be. His very ideality has 
made him a realist, and there is a close 
organic connection between his character, 
his creed, and his policy. 

Imagine this man cast suddenly into the 
political chaos of 1847 and 1848. It is 
hard for an Englishman to understand the 
condition in which Germany then was. 
In general intellectual culture she stood 
among the foremost nations of Europe. 
Her great poets and thinkers were num- 
bered among the proudest names of the 
period, her methods of teaching and re- 
search had already begun to attract the 
attention of foreign students, and among 
the lower classes there were fewer who 
were unable to read and write than in any 
other country. Nor was this all ; intel- 
lectual interests were widely diffused 
through all classes, and a taste for good 
literature was universal. But with all 
these advantages, the Germans were en- 
tirely ignorant of practical politics. In 
the classical days of their poetry such sub- 
jects had been treated with an almost os- 
tentatious indifference; and though after 
1815 a good deal of real discontent existed, 
it was not till they had found a powerful 
and polished expression in the writings of 
Borne and Heine that liberal ideas gained 
any large number of enthusiastic adher- 
ents. There was a certain literary flavor 
in the whole movement that led up to the 
outbreak, and it retained this character to 
the end. The way in which the country 
was governed presented a thousand anom- 



alies which invited ridicule, and some evils 
existed which demanded a reform. These 
were the things that served as an excuse 
for the revolution in the eyes of sober 
men, thou<;h they would have been the 
first to recog:nize the absurdity of compar- 
ing the condition of Germany with that of 
Italy or Russian Poland. The grievances 
of which the more advanced leaders com- 
plained were chiefly of a sentimental kind, 
but the youth of the country felt that to 
rebel was the proper thing to do. En- 
gland and France had had their revolu- 
tions ; it was not decorous for Germany 
to remain without one. 

When, therefore, the various govern- 
ments at last made the desired conces- 
sions, the Liberal members who were 
returned to the new Chambers were gen- 
erally men whose hearts were full of gen- 
erous emotions and whose heads were 
richly stored with the knowledge of the 
schools, but who were entirely without 
experience in the management of affairs, 
and had no adequate idea of the complex 
requirements of modern life. Theory 
after theory was eloquently expoundecf, 
and abstract points were warmly debated, 
lo those days no advanced politician 
seems to have doubted that it was easy to 
secure the happiness of the human race 
by means of legislation, or to solve any 
practical problem by fluent talk. It is 
said that while the Frankfort Parliament 
was sitting, a number of deputies who had 
met to spend the evening together passed 
a solemn resolution that they would not 
separate until they had settled the social 
question, and, though the story is doubt- 
less an invention, it is characteristic of 
the spirit of the time. 

Baron von Bismarck was the last per- 
son who was likely to take pleasure in 
such discussions or even to regard them 
seriously. By disposition he was disin- 
clined to take an optimistic view of human 
life, for his youth had been passed in 
active avocations, and he had already 
gained a considerable insight into charac- 
ter. He had a clear eye for difficulties 
and no desire to hoodwink himself, so 
that he was not in danger of concluding 
that any opinion or desire of his, however 
pious, would miraculously alter the natu- 
ral course of events, or that a line of pol- 
icy must be wise and prudent because it 
could be made to seem ma^;nanimuus. 
At this time he was more likely to err by 
falling into the opposite extreme. How- 
ever faulty the institutions under which 
Prussia had grown great mi^^ht be, tiiey 
had stood the test of time. Amid all this 

glamor of imagination and enthusiasm, 
they at least were real. Experience hav- 
ing proved that they would work, though 
not perhaps always so smoothly as might 
be desired, he was inclined to prefer them 
to the more neatly adjusted schemes 
which existed only in the brains of their 
inventors. He possessed in a high de- 
gree that awe of the incalculable element 
in human affairs which all minds of the 
highest order have felt and which they 
have called, according to the dialect of 
their day, luck, fate, or the will of God. 
But he had no such trust in the unkoowo 
as induces the radical politician to advo- 
cate changes the results of which he can- 
not estimate. 

He was convinced of his duty to use 
his reason and foresight to the utmost. 
It is this that lends his speeches their 
individual character. Both on his right 
and his left there sat greater Parliament* 
ary orators, men who could appeal with 
far more effect to the affections rooted in 
the past, or to the hopes fixed upon the 
future. He rarely endeavored to arouse 
these emotions; but he constantly ap- 
pealed from theory to practice, from the 
dream to the fact, from abstract reasoning 
to experience. This greatly excited the 
indignation of the Liberals. They felt 
like the triumphant lover who, in the 
high tide of his joy, is suddenly asked to 
make an accurate statement as to the 
means which he does not possess but is 
sure he shall be able to obtain. In the 
press they alternately denounced and rid- 
iculed the squire; in the Chamber they 
vainly tried to howl him down. The first 
time he addressed the House the tumult 
became so great that for a time he could 
not be heard. Instead of returning to his 
seat, as was expected, he drew a newspa- 
per from his pocket and read — or pre- 
tended to read — it till order was restored, 
when he continued and finished his speech 
amid shouts of dissent and some applause. 
For he did not stand alone. There were 
many Conservatives in the Chamber, 
though from a dearth of orators, and a 
want of organization, their influence was 
but small. The first thing to be done 
was obviously to form them into a party, 
and. though he has never been a great 
Parliamentary speaker or leader, Baroa 
von Bismarck made himself exceedingly 
useful in doing this. He established the 
Cross Ga3t'//e,lhe first distinctly Conser%'- 
ative journal of Prussia. He soon became 
a man of mark, whose services were fully 
recognized, and he was speedily honored 
by the special aversion of his oppoaeots. 


A history of the Parliameotary life of 
Berlin during the period of the Revolu- 
tion would have little interest for English 
readers. A single anecdote with respect 
10 it may, however, find a place here. A 
number of extreme democrats belonged 
to a committee of which Herr von Bis- 
marck was also a member, and on one 
occasion they entered the room after hav- 
ing had a jovial lunch. One of them, a 
certain Herr d'Ester, then said to the 
present chancellor : ** You alone in all 
your party have always treated us with 
politeness, let us make a bargain ; if we 
sain the upper hand we will spare you ; if 
Fortune should favor you, you shall do the 
same by us." To this Bismarck replied : 
*• If your party has its way, life will not be 
worth living; if ours is victorious, there 
will have to be executions ; but they shall 
be conducted with politeness up to the 
last step of the ladder.'* 

But the time shortly came when Herr 
von Bismarck was to find a more congenial 
field for his exertions than a representa- 
tive chamber could ever have afforded. 
In May, 185 1, he was nominated first sec- 
retary to the German embassy at the 
Diet, and in August of the same year he 
became ambassador. The appointment is 
said to have been due to the personal 
wishes of the king, who had formed a high 
opinion of his talents and character, and a 
good deal of comment was excited at the 
time, by the fact that so young and inex- 
perienced a diplomatist had been chosen 
for so important a post. The position 
proved to be more difficult than any one 
at the time supposed. 

The Revolution of 1848 had wrought an 
unexpected change in the Diet. It was 
long the custom in Germany to decry the 
statesmen who drew up the old Federal 
Constitution, but the problem placed be- 
fore them was one that the greatest politi- 
cal genius could hardly have solved. It 
was simply how to unite two great powers 
and a number of small States, in such a 
way as to secure their harmonious action, 
and yet preserve the independence of 
each ; and this desperate task had to be 
undertaken at the Congress of Vienna, 
where every foreign diplomatist claimed a 
right to be heard on the matter. It was 
not to be expected that Prussia should 
submit to the supremacy of Austria, or 
Austria to that of Prussia; still less that 
both should allow their policy to be dic- 
tated by a council of princelets, each of 
whom asserted that his own sovereign 
rights were as sacred as those of his more 
powerful neighbors. Thus every article 


was a more or less unsatisfactory com- 
promise, and after long and fruitless de- 
bates, the whole work was at last hurriedly 
concluded under the immediate impres- 
sion produced by Napoleon^s return from 
Elba. It was evident from the beginning 
that it was only by the exercise of the 
greatest tact that the Federal Constitution 
could be maintained. 

At first, the governments were united 
by their enmity to France, and their dread 
of the revolutionary forces which were 
still at work under the seemingly stable 
surface of European society. They were 
ready to make concessions to one another. 
The two great powers generally came to a 
private understanding on questions of im- 
portance, and their opinion was accepted 
by the rest. At that time the ambition of 
Austria was directed towards the East, 
rather than the West. She valued the 
other States of the Confederation as allies 
whose assistance might be useful in a 
crisis, but she took no great interest in 
their domestic affairs. Hence, by a tacit 
understanding, Prussia directed the Ger- 
man and Austria the foreign policy of the 
Diet. But in 184S the whole internal 
structure of the latter State broke down. 
The system of pitting race against race, 
and province against province, which had 
for a time proved so successful in ensur- 
ing the submission of all, ended in dis- 
astrous failure; and, when the Revolution 
was at last subdued, the statesmen of 
Vienna perceived that it would be neces- 
sary to reconstruct the empire on an en- 
tirely new plan. 

Their chief purpose down to 1866 was 
to unite and Germanize all the races that 
owed allegiance to the person of the 
emperor. It was not an easy task; the 
chartered rights of the more important 
kingdoms and provinces had, it is true, 
been legally forfeited in the troubles of 
the preceding years; and those who had 
remained true to the empire in the hour of 
its difficulty, were not likely to rise in 
revolt against it when tranquillity was re- 
established, especially as their loyalty was 
recognized and rewarded in the most flat- 
tering way. Never in the eyes of the 
political theorist had a better opportunity 
occurred for welding the heterogeneous 
populations of Austria into one uniforrA 
mass. For once, no technical difficulties 
prevented the accomplishment of tiie threat 
design; but sentiments which had been 
the growth of centuries, and which had 
been carefully fostered for more than 
thirty years, could not be rooted out in a 
moment, and Prince Schwartzenbergsoon 



perceived that he could only succeed in I opposition to the wishes of his g^overn- 
ills purpose by tightenin*; the ties that ■ munt was systematic. He endeavored, 
bound the empire to the non-Austrian | without success, to come to an under- 
Germans. He therefore i(;nored the un- 1 standing with his Austrian colleague out- 

derstandinn; that had hitherto existed be- 
tween the two great powers, and did every- 
thing he could to secure the support of 
the smaller States. The courts of the 
latter, whose suspicions of Prussia had 
been aroused by the events of 1848, and 
who were Mattered by the thought of arbi- 
tralincr between two powers of the hijjhest 
rank, for the most part met the advances 
of the Viennese Cabinet with the greatest 

The Berlin ministers desired nothing; 
more earnestly than cordial relations with 
Austria. The misunderstandings of late 
years had not extinguished the feelings 
which had been kindled during the wars 
against Napoleon, and an alliance with 
the empire was and long remained an 
important article in the creed of every 
Prussian Conservative. But Herr von 
Bismarck soon discovered that he must 
not expect to find a response to these feel- 
inj^s. Count Thun was too well-bred and 

side the council chamber, and was at first 
inclined to attribute his failure to the 
personal opinions of Count Thun. The 
attempt to break up the Zollvereio on pre- 
tence of extending it, seemed to him a 
distinct act of hostility aimed against the 
influence Prussia had gained over the 
smaller States which had come to an un- 
derstanding with her on the matter of 
import duties. 

Herr von Bismarck had gone to Frank- 
fort with warm Austrian sympathies; but 
he was above all things a Prussian, by 
birth and by conviction. Amid the chaos 
of conflicting theories which threatened 
to engulf the existing institutions of Ger- 
many, the army and the bureaucracy of 
his country had proved real and stable 
forces. The man who was to brinj^ about 
the union of Germany had for his object 
to serve Prussia, to increase her power, 
and advance her interests, and all through 
his life he would have considered it a mis- 
amiable a man, and too experienced a , fortune if the other States of Germany 
diplomatist, for it to be possible to at- ; had become more closely united to her 

tribute any slight on his part either to ill 
humor or bad manners. Yet the Prus- 
sian representative was frequently sub- 
jected to treatment which was all tiie more 
galling because his personal relations to 

without adopting a large portion of her 
spirit and her methods. As soon, there- 
fore, as he perceived the aim of the Aus- 
trian ministers, he hastened to oppose 
their designs. He did his utmost to limit 

the count were excellent, and it could 1 the powers of the Diet, and refused to 
therefore only be ascribed to a deliberate I acknowledge that a vote of the majority 
intention of lowering the position of Prus- 1 was binding on those who dissented from 
sia in the estimation of the world. | it. 

Bismarck, however, knew how to assert I At 6rst it seemed as if the dangers of 

himself. To take a comic example. It 
had become the fashion in the sittings of 
the Diet for only the imperial ambassador 
to smoke; one day Baron von Bismarck 
drew out his cigar-case and asked his 
Austrian colleague for a light, which, of 
course, could not be refused. Hence- 
forth, Prussia as well as Austria smoked ; 
but one by one the smaller States of Ger- 
many felt the distinction thus made be 

the situation would bring about a recon- 
ciliation. Austria, finding her frontiers 
threatened, became anxious to obtain the 
support of the rest of Germany, and Prus- 
sia was, in Herr von Bismarck's opinion, 
only too ready to grant the required aid. 
The two great German powers came to an 
understanding to which the minor States, 
with the exception of Mecklenberg, finally 
yielded their assent. An entire harmony 

tween them and the great powers to be i seemed to be established, but when the 
invidious, and lighted their cigars. One ■ statesmen of Austria, having thus secured 
elderly gentleman who had hitiierto been ! the empire from an attack on its rear, and 
guiltless of tobacco, is said to have suf- j obtained a guarantee for its present terri- 
fered severely from the energy with which ; torial possessions, endeavored to come to 
he pufiEed away at an enormous cigar in j a closer understanding with the Western 
order to assert the independent sover powers, and seemed inclined to engage 10 
eignty of his government. He was one I a v\ar with Russia, the Prussian represen- 
of those mute, inglorious patriots whose tative in Frankfort raised his voice in 
selt-sacrifice even posterity fails to recog- . warning. He urged that the Vienna min- 
nize. j istry should be distinctly informed that 

Tiie course taken in the Diet was most 1 the support ol Prussia would not be given 
serious. Bismarck concluded that the | indiscriminately to any policy they tboogbt 


fit to adopt, but only to one that was in 
accordance with the articles of the offen- 
sive and defensive alliance. Prussia had 
nothinc; to gain by a war, and the mouth 
of the Danube had little real importance 
for Germany, so that the questions at 
issue did not affect the vital interests of 
the country. Austria, on the other hand, 
cherished ambitious plans as to the East, 
and probably dreamed of a protectorate 
over the Danubian principalities. The 
smaller States of the Confederation, with 
one doubtful exception, had hitherto 
shown no leanings to France. Security 
was what their courts desired. War could 
bring them no advantages, and at its con* 
elusion they feared that their territories 
might be divided among the combatants. 
They were therefore in favor of peace and 
neutrality. If Europe, however, should 
be divided into two hostile camps, they 
would side with what they thought the 
stronger party. They would prefer an 
alliance of Prussia, Austria, and Russia, 
as that would be both powerful and Con- 
servative. If the four other powers were 
opposed to Russia, they would act with 
them, though with less confidence. They 
suspected the emperor of the French of 
intending to come to a separate and secret 
understanding with the czar, and at the 
first sign of such a change they would do 
their utmost to be included in the new 
alliance. Prussia, whose true interests 
were identical with those of the smaller 
States, should hasten to put herself at 
their bead, and thus regain the position 
she lost in 1848. 

Never, since 1813, had Prussia stood 
so low in the estimation of Europe. Any 
one who desires to know what was thought 
of it in England need only turn to the con- 
temporary leading articles of the Times, 
Shortly after one of the most ferocious of 
these bad appeared, on the very day in 
fact on which it * reached Berlin, an ama- 
teur musician and singer of great skill and 
celebrity was introduced to the king by 
Alexander von Humboldt. His Majesty 
was gloomy and received his guest with 
less than his wonted cordiality. The lat- 
ter seated himself at the piano, and tried 
music of various kinds in vain, until he be- 
gan to sing, ** Scots wha hae." Then the 
king sprang from his seat, and after pac- 
ing up and down the room for a time, he 
clapped the singer upon the shoulder and 
exclaimed, '* That's it, that's it ! Doesn't 
it make one feel as if one longed to draw 
one's sword?" In fact, Prussia was en- 

* We believe it was that of the zQth March, 1855. 


tirely discredited. To foreign nations she 
appeared to be not only the vassal of Aus- 
tria, but the sulky and unwilling vassal. 
Herr von Bismarck, who was so anxious 
with respect to the prestige of his coun- 
try in the Diet, where it was of practical 
value and had been secured, viewed this 
state of things with the greatest compo- 
sure. If Prussia were excluded from the 
Congress of Paris, as was at one time 
proposed, that would only mean that she 
was not bound by its decisions. One 
thing was certain — Russia would hence- 
forth regard Austria with less, and Prus- 
sia with greater cordiality than heretofore. 
That was necessary for the accomplish- 
ment of a design which was forming itself 
more and more distinctly in his mind. 

On the 26th April, 1856, he addressed 
a private letter to Bacon von Manteuffel 
which contains an explanation of the 
principles on which the whole of his later 
policy was based. He began by pointing 
out that all the nations of Europe were 
desirous of securing the friendship of Na- 
poleon ; but though the emperor had now 
a choice of alliances, the cordial under- 
standing with England was so clearly to 
the advantage of both countries, that it 
was improbable it would be disturbed. 

It can hardly be supposed that Louis Napo- 
leon will ever desire war for its own sake, or 
that he is animated by the ambition of a con- 
queror ; it is to be expected that he will prefer 
peace as long as the tone of feeling in the 
army — that is, his own safety — permits him 
to do so. He will, I fancy, keep a question 
open which will always afford an excuse for 
action, neither too hich-handed nor too un- 
just, in case he should in future stand in need 
of a war. For this purpose the Italian ques- 
tion is now excellently suited. The unhealthy 
condition of things there, the ambition of Sar- 
dinia, the reminiscences of the families of 
Bonaparte and Murat, the Corsican descent, 
all afford the eldest son of the Roman Church 
numerous points of contact. The hatred felt 
for the Princes and the Austrians smooths the 
way for him, whereas in Germany he has 
nothing to expect from our thievish and cow- 
ardly democracy, and would only obtain the 
help of the Princes if he were stronger than 
his opponent without it. 

Though war was not to be immediately 
apprehended, a new grouping of the pow- 
ers, in expectation of coming conflicts, 
was almost certain to take place. Some 
years before, schemes for an alliance 
between Russia, France, and Austria 
against England and Prussia had been 
talked about; from such a combina- 
tion Austria would now certainly be ex- 
cluded by the enmity of Russia. No 


confidence could be placed in the smaller tria in a conflict that appeared to bim to 

States of the Confederation. Under be hopeless. The condition of Eoglaod 

these circumstances the question arose confirmed him in this opinion. 
whellier an alliance of Prussia. Austria, gince the Reform Bill the ancestral wisdom 

and England would be powerful enough q£ earlier days has not succeeded in reducing 

to resist the united forces of France and the passions of a turbulent party spirit to 

Russia. order. It is impossible for me to regard a 

If things stood as they ought to do. I should country with confidence in which newspaper 

not despair ; but the EmperSr Franz Joseph is ^^^'^^^^ *^*^« "»«J? ^f'K^^ ^*»*" the calculations 

not the master of his provinces and his sub- «^ statesmen Her insular security renders it 

jects in the same degree as our most gracious J^V /°^ E"« ?"^ ^l ^^"P^ ^"^, }^ ^^^ * 

Sovereign. When on the offensive. Austria is 5^"^'"f "'^^l ^^l^ ^ '^^ '""T^^f^^- ^^^ "^^^ °«^ 

not to & despised. She can send more than ^5™^"^ ^ change in the Ministry is suffi- 

200.000 good soldiers abroad, and yet retain S»«"^ to and to justify a change of 

enough at home to keep an eve on her Italians, (j;?"^' ^ Prussia found in the beven Years' 

MaiT?ars. and Slavs. When placed on the ^V^''- • .' • And if we should really be victon. 

defensive, however, and attacked from East ous against an alliance of P ranee and Russia, 

and West. I believe that Austria is at present ^«'' T''^^^ should we have fought ? For the 

weak, and it is far from improbable that at the continuance of Austrian supremacy m Ger- 

first home stroke of an opponent the whole 5»?y» ^P^ ^^^ wretched constitution of the 

artificial edifice of Bach and Buol's govern- Federation. . . . Now a^ formerly. evervmcas. 

ment bv clerks would fall to pieces like a "^'^ ^»»^ .^ approved that prevenu Prussia 

house of cards. But. even if I put this danger ^^^ attaining a higher position in Germany 

aside, a greater will be found in the fact that ^"^ "^^^t*'"* ^^' V""^^' -^^ ^'TT "^^""^ P'J?* 

an alliance between Prussia and Austria, ent geographical position and the unfavorable 

though concluded in the face of the greatest condition of the I-ederal Constitution, 
common danger, would be wanting in every- Jt is thus clear that Herr von Bismarck 

thing that lends such an alliance stability, ij^d already arrived at several important 

Muiua political suspicion; military and politi- conclusions. The Federal Constitution 

cal jealousy ; the fear of the one tnat the other , . . • l* • • u 1^ .^ 1 

might come to a separate understanding with F^"^^ "°.^»;" ^'^ ^P'^^^*^' ^e made to work 
the enemv; in the davs of good fortune to pre- '" * satisfactory viray, and as soon as a 
vent an increase in the power of its allv, in favorable opportunity ottered, it was there- 
evil days to secure its own safety — all these fore advisable for Prussia to withdraw 
fcclini^s would now be stronger and more from the Confederation, with as many 
crippling than in any ill-assorted combination of the north-German States as she could 
of the past. . . . From the point of view of persuade to follow her leadership. But 
Vienna. Germany is. once for all. too narrow jn order that this change might be brought 
for both of us. As long as an honest under- ^^out with as little foreign interference as 
standing with respect to the influence of each 45, cordial relations must be esUb- 
in Crcrmanv has not been arrived at and car- ,• . . -.l i^ j ^ui 
ried out. we are both ploughing the same field ^'^^ed with Russia, and every possible 
to which we both lav claim, and while this ettort made to gam the friendship ol 
state of things continues. Austria is the only France. No line of policy could have 
State from whom we have to expect a perma- been conceived more entirely opposed to 
nent gain or loss. . . . The dualism in Ger- the prejudices under which Herr von 
many has already lasted for a thousand years. Bismarck had been educated. Of the sen- 
Since the time of Charles v.. in every century timents of the German nation and the 
the relation between the North and South has people of Prussia. It was imposed upon 
been dennitelv determined by a thorough civil j,,^ ^y the political condition of Europe 

me';n''"'^f \".±!.?h".' H^^^^^^ ^iihout his choicc. indeed, to a large eV- 

means ot setting the clock of history to the , ^ •»!.•. -n u / • Jt . -^ 

right time. ^^"^» ^S^inst his will; but seeing that it 

was the only path that led to the safety 

Herr von Bismarck added that he by and prosperity of his country, he repressed 

no means wished to su;;gest that the first his personal sympathies, and for the next 

favorable opportunity should be taken for ten years followed it out with a quiet, 

declaring war against Austria, but merely unwavering persistency that no popular 

that, in his opinion, Prussia would soon tumult could shake, no courtly intrigue 

be compelled to fight for her very exist- could baffle. 

ence against the empire, *' because the The most serious difficulty he had to 

condition of things in Germany admitted overcome arose from the opposition of 

no otiier solution,'* and, if he were right, the Berlin ministers. They seem to have 

it would be carrying self-sacrifice too far agreed with their representative on almost 

for Prussia to stake her all for the pur- every single point; but they shrank from 

pose of maintaining the integrity of Aus- adopting the bold course which he recom- 



mended, and so when the day he bad 
foreseen arrived, and France raised the 
Italian question, they refused to regard 
the hour of Austria's necessity as Prus- 
sia's opportunity. This was probably the 
reason why they withdrew their represen- 
tative from Frankfort, and appointed him 
to St. Petersburg, a post which he accept- 
ed with some hesitation, though he was 
excellently fitted for it, and it was a dis- 
tinct advance in the diplomatic career. 
The plan he had considered so deeply and 
matured so carefully had failed, because 
those behind him had not had the heart 
to strike when the long expected moment 
had come. For a time he seems seriously 
to have thought of abandoning public life 
altogether and retiring to his estates; but 
he was not the man to allow any feeling 
of personal pique or any more serious 
sense of disappointment to induce him to 
abandon the task he had undertaken. 
Convinced that a good understandingwith 
Russia was necessary to the success of 
his design, he was resolved that nothing 
he could do to secure it should be want- 

From Chambers* Journal. 


They were talking of brotherhoods the 
other day at Lloyd Fenton's, and extolling 
the good deeds done by them, especially 
by that fraternity called in Italy the 
Misericordia. Each one had some expe- 
rience to relate — a tale of benevolence 
or courage — but I sat silent. At length 
Fenton asked me a direct question : •* VVhy 
do you say nothing, Cuthbert? You have 
t>een in Italy so long, you must have heard 
mach of the brethren." 

" I have heard something of them," was 
my answer, **and indeed have had an ex- 
perience of treatment at the hands of one 
of them ; but as it is directly at odds with 
all of yours, it seems a pity I should men- 
tion it." 

" Oh no " — " Tell us " — " You must " 
— " We want a shadow to all this light," 
was the chorus raised immediately. And 
this is what I told them. 

Five years ago I was poor enough, and 
was thankful to take what work came to 
hand; so, when my rich cousin, John 
Harper, sent me to Florence to copy pic- 
tures for his great house at Eastraere, I 

gratefully accepted the munificent ofifer 
he made me, started off at once for Flor- 
ence, and set up my easel in the "city of 
flowers " early in October. By February 
I felt as if I had lived there for years, and 
had made acquaintance with nearly all its 
pictures, palaces, and churches. After 
making copies of some well-known works 
— "Madonna," by Raphael; "Madonna 
and Two Saints," by Andrea del Sarto; 
"Pietk." by Fra Lippi — I thought I 
would change my ideas by having a face 
that was not a saintly one to gaze at ; so I 
betook myself to the Sala dt Venus in the 
Pitti Palace, and took up my brushes in 
front of the " Bella Donna " of Titian. As 
the face and form grew under my pencil, 
I could not but learn from the favorable 
remarks continually made upon it in my 
hearing, that I had succeeded somewhat 
better than usual in transferring a portion 
of the beauty of the original to my canvas. 
The picture was all but finished, and I 
was one day adding a stroke here and 
there to the gold embroidery of the dress, 
when I heard the steps of two gentlemen 
pause behind me, and one of them ex- 
claimed: *'Per Bacco, non c'& male!" 
He began to talk about my work; soon 
learned that I was English, and intending 
to go homewards shortly; and before our 
interview was over, he asked me to copy 
for him a picture in his gallery, the origt* # 
nal of which he wished to part with. He 
was good enough to say that he had been 
seeking some one who would catch the 
intention of the painter sufficiently well 
to supply the copy he wanted ; and he 
thought I might be able to render the 
meaning of the original without supple- 
menting it by fancies of my own. He let 
me fix my own time for work, so I arranged 
to begin early in the following week. 
With the usual formal salutations, we 
parted; and on looking at the card left 
by my new patron, I found him to be 
the Principe Gherado Schidone, of whose 
small but exquisite collection of pictures 
I knew well the reputation. 

On presenting myselt at the palazzo, I 
was shown into the library. The tall man 
in livery who opened the massive door 
moved so quietly across the thickly car-- 
peted floor that the prince did not hear 
his approach, and I had time to take note 
of the apartment and its inhabitant before 
he was intormed of my presence. He 
was writing, and I observed his high, nar- 
row forehead and projecting chin almost 
unconsciously. His eyes were dark, and 
rather hard, the nose and mouth beauti- 
fully formed. When he raised his head 



and a friendly smile brightened his face, 
the prince was decidedly a handsome man. 
He was about thirty; and I heard of him 
as being extremely clever, somewhat of a 
divoty and unquestionably poor. After a 
few minutes' chat, he proposed to conduct 
me to the gallery, whither he said my 
painting-things would have been already 
taken. We walked down a corridor hung 
with tapestry, and scantily furnished with 
ancient seats, dower chests, and antique 
vases, after the manner of such places; 
and turning sharply to the right, ascended 
a marble staircase, from the landing at the 
top of which a door on the left admitted 
us to the picture-gallery. The rooms I 
had already seen were rather shabby, and 
looked as if a good round sum might be 
expended on their re-decoration wi>!i ad- 
vantage; but the two apartments which 
contained the collection of paintings were 
in excellent preservation. The decora- 
tions of wall and ceiling were fresh and 
bright; the polished floor was covered in 
the centre with a thick carpet ; huge logs 
flamed on the hearth ; and the place had 
the cheerful air of being cared for, which 
in my experience was not usual in the 
palazzi ot Florence. 

The prince allowed me to look at the 
masterpieces of art of which he was the 
fortunate possessor, and then paused be- 
fore a striking picture — the one of which 
he told me he desired the most faithful 
copy in my power to produce. He further 
added that the subject of the portrait was 
an ancestress of his, and that it was by 
Morone, that prince amongst portrait- 

My admiration of the work seemed to 
make Prince Gherado think he should ac- 
count for partmg with it; and with some- 
thing ot a frown on his handsome face, he 
said: *^The lady was a Bandinelli; and 
her family havin;; long wished for the por- 
trait, 1 have at length decided they shall 
possess it." 

1 bowed, and was soon left alone. Plac- 
ing my easel in the most favorable posi- 
tion, 1 studied the portrait attentively fori 
a good halt-hour, and came to the conclu- \ 
sion that no light task had been assigned \ 
♦ me. The picture represented a girl ot 
about twenty, and was entitled simply 
•* Amaranlhe." It was of three-quarters I 
length ; and the lady's appearance tasci- ' 
nated me at first sight; but her charm 
became less the more the features were 
studied. She wore a dress of dark ame- 
thyst velvet, with curious gold ornaments. . 
About the throat and wrists there was ! 
some lovely lace, and she carried a fan of j 

feathers io her hand. The face was of a 
delicate paleness, and beautifully formed ; 
the mouth rather large, and with firm, 
clearly cut lips. A well-modelled nose 
and marked eyebrows gave it character. 
The forehead was broad and low; the 
eyes of an exquisite gray, with lashes so 
dark and long they seemed to give a violet 
shade to the pupils. And most noticeable 
of all was the magnificent wealth of goldeo 
hair, which hung down without band or 
ribbon, being loosely plaited from the 
shoulders. As I studied the picture, I 
came to believe that the lady had been 
one who would be more admired than be- 
loved, and who would be a cold friend aod 
a remorseless foe. 1 may have wronged 
** Amaranthe;" but the portrait had all 
the lifelike charm that the best pictures 
by Morone possess, and I believe revealed 
her character. 

Prince Gherado took great interest io 
my work, coming often to watch its prog- 
ress, and giving me hints which showra 
him to have a great knowledge of the 
technical part of the artist's profession. 
He used to come at all times, and never 
twice together entered by the same door, 
till at length 1 had an uncomfortable idea 
that he watched me, and that these un- 
expected appearances were to test my 
industry. He was, however, always ex- 
tremely polite, and expressed nothing but 
satisfaction with my work. 

One morning I chanced to be earlier 
than usual at the palace, and found the 
windows had not been uncovered. The 
servant who followed me went to one of 
them, and I to the other, and when the 
heavy blind was raised, I remained a few 
moments looking out. The window was 
rather high in the wall, and standing on 
the floor, one could not see into the gar- 
den below. I knelt on the broad window- 
seat, and from my elevation looked down 
into the enclosure, gay with flowers, and 
with a fountain splashing in the centre. 
Facing me was a wall, then another gar- 
den, and a long, low range of white build- 
ings. As I watched, a door in the centre 
of these opened, and out trooped a bevv 
of nuns. They looked like merry school- 
girls as they frisked round and round the 
garden walks. Their dress of black and 
white was oddly finished off by an enor- 
mous flapping straw hat, tied down with 
black ribbon, completely concealing the 
face, and as unlike as possible to the head- 
gear of any order of nuns when seen out- 
side their dwelling. 

"What convent is that?" I inquired. 

*'lt belongs to the order of St. Gate* 


rioa," was the roan's answer; and as he 
passed me to leave the room, he said in a 
subdued voice: ** It was from there that 
the princess came." 

The princess! I had not heard of her, 
and I found myself once or twice wonder- 
ing what manner of lady she was. 

That afternoon, as 1 was working away 
at the hair of Amaranthe, the door on my 
right opened, and the rustling of a dress 
betokened the presence of a visitor. 1 
rose from my seat as the prince entered 
with a lady, from whose face 1 could not 
withdraw my eyes, so strangely did she 
resemble the portrait 1 was copying. How 
well 1 knew the features I But the face 
of the living Amaranthe bore only a sweet, 
aroused expression as she said: "See, 
Gherado; the signor is struck with the 
likeness ! " and advancing to me, she con- 
tinued with a merry laugh : " That Ama- 
ranthe Bandinelii was my ancestress. Are 
we not alike ?" 

I stammered some reply, but the words 
did not come quickly. To sit for days in 
front of a canvas copying the lineaments 
depicted thereon till you know every 
curve and line, and then to find beside 
you the picture come to life, without a 
word of warning — this was so strange an 
experience that it took away my self-pos- 
session for the moment. 

The princess was about to tell me more, 
and began, saying: *'That Amaranthe was 

not a " when the prince interfered, 

saying: **^aj/rt/ you must not interrupt 
the signor. Do you like his work ? Look 
at it." 

His voice was harsh, peremptory; and 
the young wife's face changed ; a hard 
look came into it, and the likeness to the 
picture was intensified. She spoke no 
word, but gazed tixedly on my work for a 
few moments; then, with a stately step, 
crossed the room to a door in the wall 
behind me, and disappeared. The prince 
followed, and I was again alone. 

Mv work was progressing well; and in 
the bright spring afternoons I began to 
leave it, and go to the Cascine to watch 
the crowds driving up and down — the 
Russians with their low carriages, spirited 
horses, with scarcely any harness, and 
fur-caped coachmen ; the eccentric Ameri- 
can with his team of fourteen ill-matched 
steeds ; the sober English, heavy Germans, 
and brilliant Italians, all driving or riding 
according to their various nationalities 
and in their special fashions. I some- 
times saw Prince Schidone and his lovely 
wife; they were invariably alone ; and the 
carriage was never drawn up at the side 


of the avenue with a crowd of tbungers 
encircling it, as was the case with the 
other vehicles. One of my 1 talian friends, 
Luigi Savelli, told me the prince was jeal- 
ous, and that he allowed his wife no lib* 
erty, adding that she had run away from 
herconvent to marry him. I remembered 
the footman's words, and began to believe 
the statement, notwithstanding my knowl- 
edge of the watchful care with which the 
Church guards her children. 

When I thought my work nearly done. 
Prince Gherado became fastidious about 
the dress, and objected to the color of the 
fan and my treatment of the lace. It 
seemed as if he did not wish the picture 
finished. I began to weary of the altera* 
tions; and after repainting the portions 
twice, told him I did not consider the work 
improved, and that 1 must decline more 

I went one morning early to try for the 
last time at the lace, when, on taking up 
my palette, I noticed on it a large patch 
of green paint, which I certainly had not 
left there, and on it, traced in black let- 
ters, were the English words : ** Help roe. 
Stay till six. — A." 

This was strange. It savored of an 
adventure. Who was A? What did 
he or she want? Could it be the prin- 
cess? Her name perhaps was Ama- 
ranthe. I would certainly stay till six. 
Before that hour the door close to my 
right hand opened ; the rustle of a dress 
again heralded the entrance of the prin- 
cess. 1 had a large open tin box by my 
side, and as the lady was passing it, she 
dropped her fan ; it fell behind her, and 
the prince stooped to pick it up. At that 
instant a tiny scrap of paper fluttered into 
my box; and I, perceiving it, closed the lid 
as I rose to salute my visitors. The prin« 
cess spoke no word to me, but made some 
rapid and not favorable criticisms on my 
work in Italian. I spoke to the prince in 
the same language, as I feared his wife 
might not know 1 understood her re- 
marks, which were not of the most polite 
description. She did not appear to heed 
this, in fact continued her strictures, the 
gist of which I found to be her displeasure 
with the hair; she thought it required 
much more careful finish. I reminded the 
prince that I must leave for England in a 
fortnight ; therefore my work at the pic- 
ture must soon cease, and that I did not 
think I could improve it. He was quite 
satisfied, and told his wife that when it 
hung in the place of the original she would 
confess it was well done. 

I did not dare to read the note till I ar- 


! there, I I through the open door, with so tateoie, 

speedily made myself master of i1 
tents. It was written in Italian, and i 
as follows : — 

" I trust you, for your face is good and | 
kind, and you are English. 1 am a most 
unliappy woman, a prisoner and a slave. \ 
1 mint return to the coDvent. There I ' 
shall be able to communicate with my 
uncle. Cardinal Bandinelli. Here, I can 
never speak to him of my wrongs, I am so 
watciicd. Willyouhelpme? If so, write 
'Yes' on your palette, and I will tell you 
what to do. — A." 

This was slartling, certainly. I pon- 
dered on the request, and was greatly 
disturbed. Why should I, peaceable 
Culhbert Ainsley, mix myself up with the 
family troubles of an Italian household? 
Then, on the other hand, Hie lady might 
really be unhappy — iM-treated even ; and 
at all events ii did not seem very wrongof 
her to wish for free speech of her uncle, or 
even to go back to the convent for a time. 
1 knew Cardinal Bandinclli well by sight 
and na'nc ; he was said to be a 

ble prelate, and he looked gentleness per- 
sonitied. Perhaps Amaranthe only wanted 
me to take him a letter. Anyhow, the 
love of adventure, the Idea of succoring 
beauty in distress, combined to determine 
me to accede to the lady's request; 
before leaving the palazzo next dsy, I 
traced in small lihck letters on a red patch 
the word " Yes," which would not be no- 
ticed unless sought for, as it looked like 
idle touches of the brush. 

The followin;; day, on uncovering my 
canvas, 1 found pinned round the edge a 
little slip of paper, on which was written : 
"Thank you. The day before you go, 'to- 
il of rope thirty feel ' 

wicked, and cruel an expressioo, that the 
I features seemed transformed, i turned 
sharply ) but he was gone. 


The day before I was to give up work 
the palazio, I took with me a cojl of 
rope, wrapped as a parcel, much wonder- 
ing what Amaranthe would do with it. 
The incident of the reflected face of her 
husband haunted me, and determined me 
to have no hesitation in fulfilling the prin- 
cess's request, as I felt that he possessed 
undoubtedly great capacity for cruel deeds. 
He came Id talk to roe in the afternoon, 
and conversed with his usual urbanity; 
but with my recollection of what his face 
couldht, I wondered I had ever thought 
him handsome, the eyes were^ so hard, 
and the long chin and massive jaw betok- 
ened obstinacy ; still, when he smiled, or 
when, as to-day, he spoke of the cnnoblinf; 
etfect of religion on art, he looked almost 
saintly. Standing before a " Ficti " of 
Sassoferato's, he said: "Why have we 
no p.tinters now who can so bring before 
us the realities of our faiih P " 

" Perhaps because we ourselves : 

strong hook attached. Send should like you 

dressed to my unc 

1 hastily hid the paper. Scarcely hadlyi 
I done so, when the door on my left I 
opened andadmilted the prince. He 

' ~i3 usual. I trusted he percei 

Tcd lightly, 
ig "Ah, do; faith is not dead," lie replied 
le seriously. "She only slumbers io our 
id hearts, and it needs but httle to rouse her 

Surely this man was a strange com- 
pound of good and evil I 1 wished I had 
been able to study his character more, and 
half repented ol the coil of rope, the notes, 
the promise to his wife. As if in answer 
to my uniitlered wish for his acquaint- 
ance, he said: "Will you drive with me 
n going to inspect sotpe 
and I 

my n 


II and ad- I " Willingly. 1 shall have finished my 
work here at four, and shall be quite at 

At half past four to-morrow, then," he 
said, '■ I will call for you at the Palauo 
Macchiavelli — that is where you live, I 

the room to a door in the 
which faced one on my right hand, and 
went out. There was a quaint, old-fash- 
ioned mirror hung rather high, which 
tipped slightly forward, and In which 1 del 
could see the reflection of the wall behind 

" Yes," I answered ; but I was a little 
urprised. for I had only told him I lodged 
n the Via Santo Spirilo, and had not 
iven him the name or number of my resl- 
1 thought a good deal about the 
■ ■ ^- of the prince, while 

> doors. A few minutes 1 1 was putting the finishing touches to mj 

ince left, I bent to taki 
my box, and as I raised my |the 
head, 1 saw in the glass above me the re- iplai 
flectioa ot his face gazing fixedly at me , of i 

k, and fell uneasy as to my share Id 
toings of his wile; but nevertheless I 
■.A the parcel of rope in my box, wbicb 
lurse I did not lock. Leaving little 



but the varnishiDg to do to my picture od 
the morrow, I took my departure. 

Once again I strolled to the Cascioe, 
drinking in the gaiety of the scene and 
watching the gay throng of passers-by ; 
and on my way home, gazing with fresh 
wonder at the beauty of the Campanile, 
touched at its top with the lovely hues of 
sunset, and standing out against the clear 
sky more like some exquisite building in 
a dream, than one that has watched the 
changes of the city below for five hundred 
years and more. At the Caf^ Rossini, 
where I went for dinner, I heard the 
friendly voice of Savelli calling me to go 
to his table, and promising to order a 
proper meal for me, a feat he never con- 
sidered me capable of performing for my- 

** You are leaving us soon, I hear," he 
said. ** How have you succeeded with 
your picture ? " 

** Tolerably well ; but it was a difficult 
one to copy, as all Morone's are." 

** Have you made acquaintance with the 
princess ? " was his next query. 

** I have seen her once or twice, when 
the prince has brought her to look at my 
work. How lovely she is, and how like 
the * Amaranthe'i She told me the lady 
of the portrait was her ancestress; but I 
understood Prince Gherado to say she 
was his. How is that ? " 

*'The families of Bandinelli and Schi- 
done have intermarried for three centu- 
ries, ] believe, so the lady may easily be 
the ancestress of both prince and prin- 
cess," was his answer. "They were 
cousins, I know; but not of course within 
the degree prohibited by our Church. 
Their marriage was notorious enough 
without that." 

"Notorious! How?" 

" VVhv, all Florence knows that the 
princess was at the convent of St. Cate- 
rina, the garden of which joins that of the 
Palazzo Schidone. The Bandinelli are 
poor; and the princess had many broth- 
ers and sisters ; she was destined for the 
cloister. During her probation, however, 
she became in some manner acquainted 
with the prince ; and as her father declined 
to alter his family arrangements and allow 
her to leave the convent, Gherado took 
the matter into his own hands, and per- 
suaded her to elope with him." 

" Was there not a great scandal ?" 

" The cardinal's influence was invoked ; 
by his aid the affair was hushed up and 
the young people forgiven ; but I have 
heard that not only did the prince forego 
any claim to dowry with his wife, but 

that he has consented to part with some 
of the treasures brought into the family 
by former Bandinelli, now to be returned 
as peace-ofEeriogs. Your picture, per- 
haps ? " 

" Perhaps," I replied, not liking to say 
I knew it was so. 

" I doubt if the princess is happy," pur- 
sued Luigi, for whom the subject seemed 
to possess an interest. " Gherado comes 
of a hard and cruel race ; and in spite of 
his piety and his devotion to the poor, 
there are many tales afloat of his tyranny 
when thwarted, and he has never been 
supposed to be a cavalier des dames,^^ 

" Does the princess appear often in so- 
ciety ? " 

" Very seldom, and never without her 
husbanci. It has been remarked that she 
is never out of his sight in the presence 
of a third person. She must find it dull." 

" Not so dull as the convent, I imagine," 
was my reply. 

We soon left the dinner table and saun- 
tered towards the Ponte Vecchio on the 
way to my rooms, where Savelli wanted 
to see some of my sketches. As we came 
to the Via Condotta, a company of the 
Misericordia were passing along it bear- 
ing a covered litter, in which they were 
taking some poor wretch to the hospital. 
We waited to let them pass' before we 
crossed the road, and raised our hats as 
the captain of the company advanced. 
The figure in the strange black garments, 
bearing his taper, turned towards me; 
and with the thrill that is always given by 
a look from eyes behind the two pierced 
holes in the brother's mask, came to me 
the idea that the leader of the band was 
Gherado Schidone. I mentioned this to 
my companion. 

" Likely enough," was his careless an- 
swer. " Gherado is one of the fraternity, 
I know. He never shirks his turn of 

The weird procession went on. It was 
past nine and an exquisite night. The 
moon had not long risen, and the tapers 
of the receding brethren made patches of 
yellow in the soft moonlight. Savelli and 
I sat talking far into the night, and I 
made a sketch of the little scene that had 
so impressed itself on my mind. 

Next morning, I prepared for my last 
visit to the palazzo with a slight fluttering 
of the nerves, and an idea that "some- 
thing might happen " before I returned to 
my rooms. The picture-gallery, however, 
bore its usual aspect of peace and com- 
fort; a splendid fire lent cheerfulness to 
the apartment, and everything was as 



quiet as heretofore. On opening my tin 
box 1 found a sio^n of Amaranthe's pres- 
ence, not only in the absence of the rope, 
but also in a square lefter sealed with a 
large coat of arms, and directed to "his 
Eminence the Cardinal Bandinelli.'' This 
I put carefully in my pocket-book; and in 
the afternoon I placed my now finished 
picture on a dower chest; and with a fare- 
well glance around the room, and specially 
at the ** Amaranthe," whose face I had 
studied so long, I summoned the attend- 
ant to carry my impedimenta, and jumped 
into the carriage he called for me. 

At the appointed time the prince's little 
English groom called for me at my lodg- 
ings and informed me that his master 
awaited me; and I descended to the street. 
Here 1 found a little low carriage drawn 
by a pair of ponies ; and during our some- 
what long drive, I admired the way in 
which Gherado guided the spirited little 
animals through the crowded streets, till, 
after passing down the Lung* Arno and 
crossing the river by the Ponte alle Grazie, 
we skirted the Duomo, then turned in the 
direction of St. Maria Novella, and finally, 
in a small street leading out of the Via 
del Giglio, paused in front of a large pa- 
lazzo, where we halted. 

After being conducted through the usual 
dreary saloons and galleries, we came to 
the room in which were the antiques for 
sale; and they were shown us by their 
owner. I did not think much of the dis- 
play, and found very few things 1 could 
advise the prince to purchase. It seemed 
to me that he must have been misinformed 
as to the value of the collection. He 
expressed no disappointment, however, 
chose one or two bits of inlaid jewellery, 
and we prepared to leave. I had noticed 
a lovely chased cup by Benvenuto Cellini, 
and recommended the prince to buy it; 
but he refused, and as we were on our 
way to his carriage, he explained that he 
did not believe it to have been worked by 
Cellini, but copied by one of his pupils; 
and he added: '*The original, I claim to 
possess; and if you can spare the time, I 
should like to show it you. Will you re- 
turn with me?'* 

I gladly acquiesced ; and we were speed- 
ily driving into the courtyard of the Pa* 
lazzo Schidone. The prince ran lightly 
up the broad staircase, and entering the 
library in which 1 had first seen him, led 
roe through it to a small but exquisitely 
furnished apartment, where he said he 
kept his few treasures. Here I spent, I 
think, the most enjoyable hour I had 
passed in Florence. The collection was 

small; but the tazzi, intaglios, cameos, 
and enamels were perfect of their kind, 
and to each a tale of interest was attached. 
I was fascinated by the charm of Ghera- 
do's manner, as he directed roy atteotioa 
to them and told their histories. At length 
he brought me the Cellini vase : it was a 
cup shaped like a nautilus shell, of exqui- 
sitely chased gold. On the rounded por- 
tion of the back was a winged Mercury 
poised on a ball of onyx. In the one we 
had previously seen, the figure was placed 
on a silver globe, which spoilt the effect, 
and it was, besides, of far inferior finish. 
The prince asked me if I would like to 
make a sketch of the vase, as I was so 
much impressed by its beauty ; and i took 
out my little pocket-book for the purpose. 
The prince gave me a cigar, rang for 
some coffee, and while returning his treas- 
ures to their various stands and cabinets, 
also began to smoke. The servant en- 
tered with the coffee, which he placed oa 
a table behind me, and retired. My com- 
panion rose to replace in a jewel-case a 
ring left, out, while I went on with mv 
sketch. Presently he handed me my cof- 
fee, and drinking some himself, sat down 
and continued his delightful talk, to which 
I listened eagerly. The delicious coffee 
was in a cup of rather larger size than 
those in which the beverage is usually 
served. I was tired, and sipped it gladly. 

Gradually i found a curious sensation 
stealing over me. I was strangely unable 
to go on with my sketch, and dropping 
the pencil, listened to the prince. I felt 
contented, satisfied — but stilled. My 
head fell gently back against the cush- 
ioned chair, and languidly I watched the 
prince. His talk appeared to grow more 
rapid, then he paused. Presently be 
laughed — a low, wicked laugh, and his 
face assumed the evil expression I re- 
membered so well; but I was incapable 
of the smallest effort. Suddenly he rose 
from his chair, leaned over me, and hissed 
in my ear: **Fool! I know alll Death 
is thy doom ! " Then he crossed the 
room, pushing the furniture out of his 
way, rang a bell violently, and came back 
to my side. When the servants rushed 
in, he cried : ** See, Giovanni ; the signor 
is ill — dying, 1 fear. He just now put 
his hand to his heart, sprang from his 
chair, and fell back like thisl Go in- 
stantly and fetch II Dottore Monte. 
Meanwhile, you bring me a cordial, water, 
a fan," he continued, turning to another 
servant; and then to bis valet: ** Un* 
: fasten his collar." 

While the terrified footmen were burry^ 



ing hither and thither, I still had con- 
sciousness enoucrh left to feel that I was 
now in the hands of a remorseless foe, 
who meant that I should die. Still I 
seemed not specially distressed or grieved, 
but more as if I were outside my body as 
a spectator. Slowly even this recognition 
of outward things failed me; and while 
Gherado and the valet were trying to un- 
fasten my tie and placing cordial on my 
lips, their faces and voices receded, and 
became fainter and dimmer, till all things 
faded from my consciousness, and I re- 
membered no more. 


A STRANGE, droning noise, an atmo- 
sphere heavy with incense, and a feeling 
of imprisonment, are the memories that 
come back to me when I recall the first 
moment of returning consciousness. A 
dull, heavy pain in my head, a sensation 
of numbness, a feeling that I did not care 
to know where I was or how I came there, 
are the next things I remember. Then 
suddenly and with a bound I seemed to 
regain control of my brain, and gazed 
about me with full awakening. My sur- 
roundings gave me ample food for thought. 
I was in the chapel of the Misericordia; 
the priest was chanting a mass for the 
dead, and six of the brethren in their black 
dresses were kneeling round me holding 
tapers in their hands. I was dressed in 
grave-clothes, and in the coffin, which, 
with a curious recollection of detail, 1 
knew to be a gorgeous one, and remem- 
bered that it would, when I reached the 
burial ground, be exchanged for a wretch- 
ed shell, resembling an elongated egg-box, 
and be sent back to serve for the repose 
of other still forms, whilst I should be 
sleeping under the sod. The bier was a 
low one, and as the head of my coffin was 
somewhat raised, I commanded a view of 
the altar, where stood the officiating priest, 
and the acolytes swinging censers. 

An agony of horror possessed me. My 
first impulse was to cry out and warn the 
worshippers that this mockery must cease. 
Then one of the brothers stirred, and the 
certainty that my would-be murderer was 
there, watching till I should be safely en- 
tombed, made me restrain the sound that 
rushed to my lips. I closed my eyes and 
tried to grasp my position. From what I 
knew of Italian customs, I was aware that 
not more than twenty-four hours had 
been allowed to elapse since my sup- 
posed death ; and as it was dark, and I 
must have been with Schidone till nearly 
seven in the evening, I surmised it to be 

some time between midnight and dawn, 
and that the brethren were waiting for 
daylight to convey me to the cemetery. 
They watched all night, I knew, and 
celebrated midnight mass for those whose 
friends were able and willing to pay for 
the ceremony, and I guessed that Prince 
Gherado had charged hi^mself with these 
cares on my behalf. Slightly unclosing 
my lids I gazed at each kneeling figure 
in turn. They were of course facing 
the altar, and my only clue to their iden- 
tity would be gathered from the hand 
of each as he held his taper, and from 
what I could see of his feet. Of the six, 
four displayed rough, coarsely made 
shoes, and hands accustomed to labor; 
one had new boots, but his hands, though 
white and shapely, were heavy and large. 
The sixth figure, the one on my left, near- 
est the altar, was, I knew, Schidone. He 
was as still as a carved image, his head 
bowed, his hands grasping a heavy can- 
dle; but it did not need the gleam of a 
great stone in a ring he habitually wore, 
to tell me it was my enemy. I recognized 
at once the long, thin fingers of his white 
hands, and felt I could trace the shape of 
his head beneath the black drapery. How 
helpless I was — how entirely in his 
power! If I interrupted the service and 
for the moment escaped, I knew I should 
not leave Italy in safety; a man so un- 
scrupulous and so powerful for evil as he 
was, would not be balked of his prey so 
easily. A cold sweat bedewed my body, 
as grim thoughts chased each other 
through my brain. I was so weak, and 
every now and then a strange dizziness 
overpowered me, 1 felt as though I could 
not regain my liberty unaided. 

The minutes as they passed seemed 
hours; and yet they fiew ail too fast, for I 
could invent no scheme for escape. A 
moonbeam shone through one of the up- 
per windows, and I thought how lovely it 
must be outside, how the soft light would 
be glorifying the Campanile, how deep 
would be the shadow in the Bigallo, how 
black would show the inlaid marble of the 
Duomo. Should I ever see it all agaio ? 
My eyes wandered round the chapel; I 
gazed at the picture of St. Sebastian over 
the altar; then at the acolytes and mur- 
muring priest; and then at the long, lace- 
trimmed altar-cloth, which touched the 
ground on either side. Surely my eyes 
were at fault, or was that black spot a 
smouldering cinder from out the censer 
the boy had swung so carelessly ? With 
rapt intensity I watched the linen with the 
coal on it, and the little puff of smoke aris- 


ino: therefrom. A few seconds more and 

a red line of fire ran up and along the 
cloth, and the artificial flowers on the 
altar were ablaze. A shout from the 
brethren, who seemed to rise simultane- 
ously from their knees, and confusion 
reigned. Then the voice of Gherado 
arose calm and clear. "Save the pic- 
ture ! " was the command to two of his 
companions, who immediately obeyed. 
"Call iht firemen," he said to another. 
" Quick, put the treasures and relics into 
a place of safety," was his command to 
the priest. But his coolness only availed 
for a few minutes; for as the fiames 
seemed to take possession of the build- 
ing, priest, acolytes, and brethren disap- 
peared in a panic, leaving their black 
robes on the floor. 

Gherado stood for a moment with the 
ghastly light of the flames shining on his 
face, and then advanced to my side. I 
feared his piety would. cause him to carry 
me out for proper burial, and with a sick- 
ening dread 1 held my breath and allowed 
no muscle to quiver; but he only mut- 
tered *' E meglio cosi — fire hides as well 
as earth,*' and walked out of the flaming 

As his receding footsteps died away, 
and with the noise of the advancing crowd 
in my ears, 1 sat up, then crept from the 
coffin, and seizing one of the long robes of 
the brethren, put it on, drew the hood 
closely over my face, and escaped by the 
door leading into the Via Calzaioli, 
whence I sped, barefooted as I was, 
across the bridge and down the street of 
the Santo Spirito. The excitement of the 
numerous people I met was great; but 
after the first few minutes, I dreaded at- 
tracting attention, and had the sense to 
retrain from running, trusting that the 
sight of a Misericordia walking barefoot 
would not excite remark. Several per- 
sons gazed at me curiously, but no one 
spoke ; and I arrived at the door of my 
dwelling in safety. Then I paused. It 
I entered, there would be danger of ques- 
tions and inquiries, much talk and confu- 
sion, and my escape would certainly reach 
the prince's ears. It would be belter for 
me to go elsewhere, and I determined to 
seek Saveili. 

When he was aroused, and had listened 
to my tale, lie promised every aid in his 
power, but strongly advised me not to re- 
turn to my lodgings, or to remain in the 

had grave fears. Saveili gave me food 
and wine and a much needed change of 
raiment ; and I thankfully flung myself on 
a sofa for a few hours* repose. At the 
appointed time my friend aroused me ; aod 
by nine o'clock we were on our way to 
the dwelling of Cardinal Bandioelli, to 
pursuance of our design to invoke his aid 
in our difficulty. The old porter was hard 
to persuade that we ought to be admitted ; 
but it occurred to Saveili to request him 
to send for the cardinal's secretary, with 
whom he was slightly acquainted. Then 
we were allowed to go up the great stair- 
case, and pass behind the heavy curtains 
at the top, whence we were ushered into a 
plainly furnished apartment, semicircular 
in form, and with three open windows, 
commanding a glorious prospect. Here, 
after waiting a few minutes, we were 
joined by the secretary, to whom Saveili 
told enough of the truth to enable him to 
judge that an interview with the cardinal 
was imperative. He conducted us to the 
study, where we found his Eminence 
seated in a huge armchair and clad in his 
purple cassock. His little red cap and the 
large ring he wore were the only indica- 
tions that his rank was higher than that 
of a Monsignor. A cup of chocolate was 
on a table beside him, and a little book 
of devotion open on his knee. 

" Your Eminence will pardon me," said 
the secretary as we advanced, " but these 
gentlemen have news for your private 

*' Ah, my children, the tidings are bad, 
I fear, since you come so early; good 
news can always wait," said the amiable 
old man. 

We unfolded our tale. It was griev- 
ous to speak of the evil deeds of one near 
him to this benevolent personage; but he 
showed the ready acumen of a mao of the 
world in dealing with the subject. 

" I presume you have no wish to bring 
an accusation of attempted murder against 
the prince?" he said. 

" No," I answered, somewhat unwill- 

** You must be aware that your interfer- 
ence in the afiFairs of the prince's house- 
hold was most unwarrantable," he said 
severely ; " and besides, you would, I 
think, be unable to bring any proof of 
such an attempt that would satisfy a judge. 
The servants would bear witness to his 
great anxiety about you, and to the state- 

city loni;cr than was necessary. Together ment he made to them as to your illness, 
we made plans for my safety and for the See," he added, "here is. the newspaper 
help ot Aniaranihe, for whose welfare 1 with an account of the affair." 
had the greatest anxiety, and for whom I ; I took the sheet he handed me, auod 



read that an English artist, **Cuthberto 
Aoslej," had died suddenly of heart-dis- 
ease at the Palazzo Schidone, after re- 
turning from a long drive with the prince, 
during which he appeared to be in excel 
lent health. Doctor Monte was mentioned 
as having been in attendance soon after 
the event. 

"To-morrow," said the old prelate, 
** there will be another paragraph stating 
that the body of the before-mentioned 
artist was burned in the fire at the chapel 
of the Misericordia." 

" Will the prince believe that ? " I asked. 

" What matters it? He will not care to 
question it ; and as for you, your departure 
from the city had best be speedy. I will 
see that Signor Savelli has unquestioned 
lil)erty to pack your effects and forward 
them to you." 

" Did your Eminence receive a letter 
from the princess? 1 posted one to you 
from her just before my drive with the 
prince," I ventured to say. 

^*'Dain>eror^ returned he, " I had the 
envelope. There was nothing in tt but a 
sheet of blank paper." 

We did not dare to insist on the unhap- 
piness of his niece and the danger she 
might be in. He promised to take imme- 
diate steps for her welfare ; but his man- 
ner forbade further speech on the subject, 
and we were dismissed with his Emi- 
nence's blessing, a grace craved by Savelli. 

Two days afterwards, 1 arrived, wearied, 
exhausted, dazed, but safe and sound, at 
the hospitable house of my cousin at 
Eastmere. My adventure interested him 
immensely, and he warmly seconded my 
wish that Luigi Savelli, to whom I felt so 
greatly indebted, should be invited to 
come to England and stay with us for a 
while. The invitation 1 wrote procured 
the following response : — 

•* Amico mio — I thank you with all my 
heart for your amiable letter, and your 
cousin for his most kind invitation. I will 
come ! Yes, my friend, I will visit your 
green island when your fogs are gone and 
your sun is come. I will look in your face 
once more, as I did the night you came to 
me from the tomb, like another Ginevra 
degli Amieri, and we will talk of the pleas- 
ant days in Florence. 

** Since you left us, we have had a trag- 
edy. The Prince Schidone is dead — 
died by his own hand, say some; died by 
his wife's hands, say others. It is true 
he is dead; how, I know not. His valet 
found him liteless in the early morning, 
and there was an empty chloroform phial 

beside him, and also a lady's kerchief. 
Amaranthe is also dead, one may say, for 
she is gone into the convent of the Se- 
polte Vive in Rome, which is indeed a 
living: death. 

" Of more cheerful subjects we will 
speak when I grasp your hand in the 
summer. Sempre a U. 

"LuiGi Savelli." 


From Temple Bar. 

The article we are writing is entitled 
'*The Russian Armament," but it has 
nothing to do with present complications ; 
it is a review of the papers of the Duke 
of Leeds, which have been admirably 
edited by Mr. Oscar Browning for the 
Camden Society, and the ** Bland Burges 
Papers," just published by Mr, Murray. 

The Marquis of Carmarthen, afterwards 
Duke of Leeds, was foreii^n secretary in 
Mr. Pitt's government until the year 1791, 
when he resigned on account of his re- 
fusal to withdraw the demands he had 
made on Russia. Lord Carmarthen was 
one of the finest gentlemen of the time, 
high-spirited, wonderfully handsome, and 
renowned for his grace of manner. ** El- 
egant Carmarthen," so he was styled. 
He was very kind-hearted. Once Foote 
went into White's Club with a friend who 
wanted to write a note. Foote, standing 
amongst strangers, did not look quite at 
his ease. Lord Carmarthen walked up to 
him, and in order to relieve his embar- 
rassment, said, **Mr. Foote, your hand- 
kerchief is hanging out of your pocket." 
Upon which the ungrateful wit looked 
suspiciously round, and thrust his hand- 
kerchief in his pocket, saying, *' Thank 
you, my lord ; you know the company a 
great deal better than I do." Mr. James 
Bland Burges was a friend of Lord Car- 
marthen, and received the appointment of 
under secretary for foreign atfairs, which 
he held till he was removed by Lord 
Grenville in 1795. His papers have been 
edited by Mr. Hutton, and contain a vari- 
ety of entertaining matter. 

Mr. Burges gives an amusing account 
of an argument that took place between 
Mr. Pitt and Gibbon, in which the latter 
was signally defeated. This took place 
at Mr. Burges's dinner table. 

In these favorable circumstances, Mr. Gib- 
bon, nothing loth, took the conversation into 
his own hands, and very brilliant and pleasant 
he was during the dinner and for some time 



afterwards. He had just concluded, however, 
one of his best foreign anecdotes, in which he 
had introduced some of the fashionable levities 
of political doctrine then prevalent, and, with 
his customary tap on the lid of his snuff-box, 
was looking round to receive our tribute of 
applause, when a dccp-toned but clear voice 
was heard from the bottom of the table, very 
calmly and civilly impugning the correctness 
of the narrative, and the propriety of the doc- 
trines of which it had been made the vehicle. 
The historian, turning a disdainful glance to- 
wards the quarter whence the voice proceeded, 
saw, for the tirst time, a tall, thin, and rather 
ungainly-looking young man, who now sat 
quietly and silently eating some fruit There 
was nothing very prepossessing or very for- 
midable in his exterior, but, as the few words 
he had uttered appeared to have made a con- 
siderable impression on the company, Mr. Gib- 
bon, I suppose, thought himself bound to 
maintain his honor by suppressing such an 
attempt to dispute his supremacy. He ac- 
cordingly undertook the defence of the propo- 
sitions in question, and a very animated debate 
took place between him and his youthful an- 
tagonist, Mr. Pitt, and for some time was 
conducted with great talent and brilliancy on 
both sides. At length the genius of the young 
man prevailed over that of his senior, who, 
finding himself driven into a corner from 
which there was no escape, made some excuse 
for rising from the table and walked out of 
the room. I followed him, and, finding that 
he was looking for his hat, I tried to persuade 
him to return to his seat. " By no means,*' 
said he. ** That young gentleman is, I have 
no doubt, extremely ingenious and agreeable, 
but I must acknowledije that his stvle of con- 
versation is not exactly what I am accustomed 
to, so you must positively excuse me." And 
away he went in high dudgeon. 

"The Gibbon," as his friend Lord 
Sheffield used to call him, once more met 
Pitt at Beckenham, the residence of Lord 
Auckland, and Lord Sheffield relates that 
his meelinj;( Pitt privately was a great sat- 
isfaction to him, and that Gibbon gave a 
very jrood account of the ease and unmin- 
isterial deportment of the great man. 

There is new and very interesting in- 
formation to be found in the •* Burges 
Papers" respecting the prosecution of 
Warren Hastinj^s. At the request of 
Mr. Pitt. Mr. Burges got up to answer 
Sheridan^s great speech in the House of 
Commons. Although it was his first at- 
tempt, the House naturally refused to 
listen to him. It is clear that Mr. Pitt's 
astonishing abandonment of Hastings to 
his persecutors was at the instigation of 
Dundas. Warren Hastings was a favor- 
ite at court, and it was feared that he 
would supersede Dundas at the Board of 
Control. Indeed, Mr. Dundas openly 

told Lord Maitland, one of the managers, 
that opposition by their attack on Hast- 
ings had done exactly what he wanted. 
On the night Pitt voted against Hastings, 
Mr. Burges was so sure that Pitt was go- 
ing to speak in his favor that he ensconced 
himself in a snug corner of the opposition 
benches in order that he might obtain a 
better view of Mr. Hastings's mighty 
champion, when to his horror he heard 
his hero pour forth an invective against 
the unfortunate Hastings so acrimonious 
as precluded all hope of assistance from 
government. Mr. Burges divided the 
House in favor of Hastings, to Pitt's 
great annoyance. 

When the House broke up, he said to me 
with an austere look, "So, sir, you have 
thought proper to divide the House. I hope 
you are satisfied." " Perfectly so, sir," I re- 
plied. " Then you seem satisfied very easily." 
*' Not exactly so, sir. I am satisned with 
nothing that has passed this evening except 
the discovery I have made that there were still 
honest men present." On that, with a stem 
look and a stately air, he left me. 

There are several anecdotes given bjr 
Mr. Burges which show with what forti- 
tude Warren Hastings bore his unmerited 
sufferings: — 

When I reflect [said Hastings] upon my 
present circumstances — when I listen to the 
railings of my accusers, and when my spirit 
rises up against them — I call to mind the 
story of an Indian king whose temper never 
knew a medium, and who in prosperity was 
hurried into extravagance by his joy, while in 
adversity grief overwhelmed him with despond- 
ency. Having suffered many inconveniences 
through this weakness, he gave notice that, 
on his forthcoming birthday, the most accept- 
able present which any of his courtiers could 
make would be a sentence short enough to be 
engraved on a ring, and suggesting a remedy 
for the grievance of which he complaineo. 
Many phrases were accordingly proposed, but 
not one that was satisfactory, until his daugh- 
ter came forward and offered him an emerald 
on which were engraved two Arabic wordfl^ 
the literal translation of which is, "This, too, 
will pass." The king embraced his child, and 
declared that she was wiser than all his wise 
men. Now [continued Mr. Hastings] when 
I appear at the bar, and hear the violent in- 
vectives of my enemies, I arm myself with 
patience. I reflect upon the mutability of 
human life, and say to myself, "This, too, will 

Mr. Burges gives an anecdote of a cir* 
cumstance which happened at a dinner at 

, Lord Carmarthen's, which shows that Mr» 
Pitt had some feelings of remorse for the 
manner in which he had forsaken Hast* 

I in<rs. 


I being made ( 

Mr. Bnrges trrilei 

An accidental alius 
nneipected chinRC of 
Begam charge, Pin suddenly lose from 
chair, and ilciding to the fireplace, remarked 
in a dignified tone to Lord Carmanhen, " We 
haTe had enough of this subject, mv lord ; I 
■fill thank you to call another." "With all 
my heart." said Lord Carmarthen ; " I am as 
lick of the subject as you can be. So come, 
Pitt, sit down and put the bottle round, for 
strange to tell, it stands by you." 

PitI and Dundas 
tlcii of wine at one silting. 

Mr. Pitt's foreign policy had been emi- 
nenlly successful: he had destroyed the 
ascendency of Fraticc in Holland ; lie had 
quelled the pride of Spain in the dispute 
of Nooika Sound ; bui his attempt to curb 
ihe advance of Russia in her invasion of 
Turkey ended in disaster. Russia had 
suSered a loss of forty thousand men in the 
liege of Oczacow, which was finally suc- 
cessful. Mr. Pitt's (Tovernment demanded 
that this fonresn should be restored to 
the Turks. Catherine positively refused 
lo resign her conqtiest, and consequetitly 
England armed in conjunction with Prus- 
sia lo compel her to disgorge. Everything 
looked like war. A great fleet assembled 
al Spithead, " Ihe Russian Armament," as 
il was called. Holland was expected to 
join in the war; however, she was luke- 
warm in the cause. She had sent a deel 
tinder Admiral Kingsbergen to help En- 
gland against Spain, but against Holy 
Russia she declined to tislil- The English 
ambassador al the Hague was violent 
against the war. The plan of Ihe cam- 
paign was that whilst an English fleet 
•botiid be sent to the Baltic and Black 
Sea. the king of Prussia in person, with 
eighty tbousaod men, should invade Li- 

were withdrawn, expressed great doubts of 
coming even lo a general determination before 
' " of operations was arranged. Lord 

respecting the Chatham very ably observed thi 
'"" ""' peared more natural to come to some deter 

ipon general grounds, and afteri 


le detail 

of e: 


night appear expedient to 

■pted. We 

at length a minute of Cabinet was agreed 
tating the necessity of supporting our pro- 
id plan of pacification, of immediately in- 
forming the King of Prussia of our intention 
]y,(. I of sending a fleet of thirty to forty sail into the 
I Baltic a squadron of ten or twelve ships of 
^^1 I the line into the Black Sea to assist the Turks. 

M r. Fox opposed violently the projected 
expedition to the Baltic, and Ihe war gen- 
erally. One of the greatest speeches Fox 
ever delivered was directed against Ihe 
"Russian Armament." There was great 
objection to ho.ttilities on the part of the 
mercantile community, whose trade with 
the Baltic was very large and remunera- 
tive. Several of Mr. Pitt's stanchest 
supporters declined lo follow him, and 
finally some ol the leading merrbers of 
the Cabinet look fright ; the Duke of 
Richmond and the Marquis of StaSord, 
the grandfather of our present foreign sec- 
retary, were soon eager to retreat. His- 
tory repeats itself. 

Wednesday, the 30th, being in the House 
of Lords, the Duke of Richmond took me into ' 
one of the Committee Rooms, and stated his 
opinion that the numberless difficulties attend- 


it almost impossible to succeed ; ll 
intry would nut support it, and ihat 
look for some expedient to get out 


was precisely Ihe same ; 

beginning of the business, and that even if it 
had changed, I should fear we were 100 late 
for retreating without hazarding our reputa- 

Th. Dukt of Lteds writes : - «■"" ',"' ^'••""»y- Tk.i ••Piy""'! '*' ""■ 

' ' — ' — icommended should be approved, 

t one method of succeeding with- 
e held at my oftice, in which the out sacrificing our consistency, viz., a secret 
s of the King's Ministers, with the but diteci negotiation with Prince Poteiokin 
(which might indulge In its effects one of his 
ruling passions, avarice), with a view to obtain 
the Empress's acquiescence in our terms. He 
seemed 10 apjirove of this, expressing his con- 
viction that to carry on a war against Russia 
would be impracticable. ... In the evening 
ice the Cabinet met. The Uuke of Richmond, 
the , Lord btaffoid. and Lord Grenville seemed to 
)ur I think it advisable to devise, if possible, some 
on means of desisting from out present plan. The 
md ' Cliancellur, Lord Chatham, Mr. Pitt, and my- 
no self agreed it might t>e attended with difficulty, 
■" " — equal m lhat which must accompany 

exception of Lord (. 
a aeet 10 ih ■' ■ ' 
Black Sea, i 

e (or sending 
and a squadron to the 
r to give weight by active 
iciple of establishing peace 
between Russia and the Porte, on the ground 
of the t/atai gue. Lord Grenville thought 
that an additional armament would produce 
the best effect, and at all evenla keep Ihe 
future direction ot the negotiations in our 
hands by Ihe simple elfect of a demonstraf 
so formidable on the part of England, : 
which, in tne event of hostilities, we could 
longer answer for short of immediate succt 



present circumstances must be liable to great 
and serious difficulty. " If," says he, "we are 
so far committed as to make an honorable re- 
treat impossible, we must go on, and I am free 
to own 1 had much rather be knocked on the 
head than survive under the imputation of 
being either knave or fool." We came to no 
precise determination this evcni ng. Lord Staf- 

he found the sentiments of the rest of the 
King's servants were to employ that arma- 
ment, he thought we should proceed with 
alacrity and effect ; no part of the fleet being 
sailed or the Prussian troops yet in motion, 
his lordship was certainly at liberty, without a 
shadow of inconsistency, to take the line he 
has since done in our subsequent deliberations). 

ford did not appear to have quite made up his I The Chancellor said but little, but expressed 
■ ' * .... ... his surprise and concern that these cautions 

sentiments had not been sooner declared, in- 
stead of coming after the determination upon 
which the last communication to Prussia was 
founded ; in this Lord Chatham, Mr. Pitt, and 
myself agreed with him, and added, the conse- 
quences we apprehended would arise from 
having proceeded so far, and then stopping 
short without any apparent reason whatever. 
Lord Camden seemed much agitated, lamented 
the difficulties he saw were inevitable on both 
hands, but gave no decisive opinion. We 
broke up early on account of the House of 
Lords, and agreed to meet again in the even- 
ing. The Duke of Richmond and Lord Chat* 
ham (only Mr. Pitt and myself being present 
with them) had a pretty long argument. The 
latter conducted himself with great cootneM 
and judgment ; the former seemed neither 
convinced nor much pleased with the superi*^ 
ority with which the subject was treated in' 
opposition to his grace's sentiments. 

Lord Chatham has been naturally con* 
sidered a failure both in politics and war, 
but it is curious that Lord Eldoo states 
that in the discussions of the Cabinet 
Lord Chatham's opinion was generally the 

At last the Cabinet came to an opinioa 
that it was necessary to retreat; a roei- 
sender had been sent to Berlin with an 
ultimatum to be sent to Russia which 
Prussia was to join in. It was deter* 
mined to send another messenger in order 
to prevent the forwarding of the demand 
on the Cabinet of St. Petersburg. The 
messenger departed whilst a strong east 
wind was blowing, and it was doubtfol 
whether he would arrive in time to stop 
the impending war. U the second mes* 
senger had not arrived in time, war wonld 
probably have taken place, for even a 
divided Cabinet must Bght for an altina- 

mind, though evidently leaning to the more 
cautious line of conduct. 

When a Cabinet is divided in opinion 
it generally blunders, first on one side, 
then on the other. Mr. Pitt and the Duke 
of Leeds disputed with the Duke of Rich- 
mond, the Marquis of Stafford, and Lord 
Greoville ; whilst Lord Camden said little, 
and Lord Thurlow slept, or, as the Duke 
of Leeds imagined, counterfeited sleep. 

Thursday, the 31st, I was to have been with 
Mr. Pitt by appointment at half past twelve. 
I called at his house ; his servant told me he 
was walked out. I returned to my otitice, and 
shortly after Mr. Pitt came to me there. We 
lamented ihc visible difference in the Cabinet 
on the subject of our present measures respect- 
ing Russia ; I told him my opinion was pre- 
cisely the same as to the expedience of adopt- 
ing a spirited line of conduct as when the 
Resolution was agreed to, and instructions in 
consequence sent to Uerlm. lie said his own 
likewise remained the same ; at the same time, 
he foresaw difficulties at home that he by no 
means hitherto apprehended, that several mem- 
bers attached to Government had divided 
against the address in the House of Commons, 
and added in confidence that he had just been 
with the Duke of Grafton, who had expressed 
himself (though in the most frien'llv manner) 
decidedly against the risking hostilities with 
Russia, and that he had been informed l>y Lord 
Euston that the Duke had insisted upon his 
lordship and his brother Lord Charles Fitzroy 
not voting upon the question of Tuesday last. 

After a sleepless night Lord Stafford 
preferred running the risk of being called 
a knave or a fool to engage in a war with 

Lord Stafford confessed his anxiety and ap- 
prehensions t)f the event of our measures had 
considerably increased since he partc<l with us 
the preceding evening, and assured us he had 
scarce closed his eyes all night from the agita- 
tion of his mind ; that he thouizht so many 
difficulties would occur m the pr<isecuti«^n of 

our plan, that we had nothing left but to get | Pitt had sent to me in the morning ; previc 
out of our embarrassment as well as we could, however to the discussion of their contentSv 
The Duke of Richmond strongly supported there passed a pretty long conversation. The 
this idea; Lord Grenviile appeared likewise. Duke of Richmond was anxious to know if i* 
to approve it (it is but justice to his lordship ', was thought possible the messenger who ear- 
to observe he behaved very honorablv ried the dispatch to Ikrlin urging some dela^T* 
through tiie whole course of thi^> business ; at ■ could have arrived soon enough to prevent th0 
tirst he opposed singly the proposil of going joint representation of the two allied Coort* 
further tii.m such demonstration a-* an iiurease to that of Petersburg being shut off from Bef 
of our naval armament would create, but when lin (this with other papers went by the pr^ 

The Cabinet met The business of the dir 
was taken into consideration, the papers Mr. 



ceding messenger a tew day* only sooner). 
Tbe Chancellor said he hoped not, and thought 
there had been a fortunate east wind which 
' would prevent the second messenger arriving 
time enough for that purpose. The Uuke 
»eemed nettled at this answer, and replied, " I 
suppose, then, you wish to cead Homer, my 
lord 1 " " What the devil," retorted the Chan- 
cellor, " bas Homer to do with Ibis business ? " 1 
"Only," replied the Duke, " 1 suppose your | 
loidship may want to have sufficient leisure to 
read Homer in comfort, which, from your sit- 
oalioo, yon have not at present." After a 
little more snarling on one part, and a great 
deal of grumbling on the other, (he dialogue 
concluded. The Duke of Richmond then 
asked me if I recollected the day (he second 
messenger went away. I told htm he set out 
on Friday, April 1st. Pitt could not help say- 
ing, " Now do own, Duke, that you enjoy the 
date on this occasion." I told him I really 
answered the Duke lout bonneinenl, and was 
sure the date was accurate ; however, since he 
mentioned it, I could not say I was particularly 
sorry at such a step being taken on such a 

It) spile of tlie east wiod the second 
messenger arrived in time to prevent Ihe 
Eomrounication of the ultimatum to Rus- 
sia. The king of Prussia was virtdally 
abandoned by his ally, and " Peace at any 
price " was now the policy of England. 

Mr, Bawkener, a great favorite in Lon- 
don society, was sctit to make the best 
bargain he could with the empress Cath- 
erine, who, knowing that England was in 
full retreat, received Ihe British envoy 
with great civility, but took care to show 
him that she understood the situation. 
Once when walking with Mr. Fawkcaer a 
dog frightened a child by his barking. 
The empress said, "Silly child! Don't 
fou know that dogs who bark never bile?" 
The Russians at the present time seem 
oot to be in the slightest degree alarmed 
at the barking of the " Grand Old Man." 

The English minister at Berlin was Mr. 
Ewart, a diplomatist of the greatest tal- 


i the : 

1 of a 


1 high station by his ability 
alooe. He was of Scotch origin, and in 
Ihe " Croker Papers " il is slated what un- 
bounded influence he hail over Ihe Prus- 
sian government. Il was iMr. Ewarl who 
was the originator of the " Russian Arma- 
ment," and he did not long survive Ihe 
shock occasioned by the riciilade of ihe 
English government. He was soon after- 
wards recalled by Lord Gtenville, who 
succeeded the Duke of Leeds at Ihe For- 
eign Office. Readers of ■' Wraxall's Me- 
moirs" will find a very favorable history 
01 this ill-fated diplomatist. 
With respect to tbe failure of English 

diplomacy in this aSair grave accusations 
have been made against Mr. Fox, who is 
alleged to have sent Mr. (afterwards Sir 
Robert) Adair to counteract the efforts of 
Mr. Fawkener. Bishop Tomlin, in bis 
"Life of Pill," accuses Fox of behaving 
in (bis eminently unpatriotic nianner. Sir 
Robert Adair deniea in the most solemn 
manner the bishop's allusion, who did not 
produce any satisfactory evidence in sup- 
port of bis charge. Be that as it may, it 
Is evident that the belief at the English 
Foreign Office was unfavorable lo Mr. 
Adair. Lord Greoville as minister for 
foreign affairs had no doubt on the sub- 
ject, and we have seen a private letter of 
his to Lord Auckland, in which he ex- 
pressed his belief that Mr. Adair had been 
sent by Mr. Fox lo oppose (be policy of 
England. The empress CHtherloe showed 
Mr. Adair every attention in her power, 
and placed him on the same footing as if 
he were indeed an envoy. The Duke of 
Leeds, who was a personal friend of Mr. 
Fox, seems to have had the same ideas as 
Lord Greoville on this affair. 

The following extract is taken from the 
Duke of Leeds's diary : — 

S. Nov. 24. Lord St. Helens dined with me. 
Atter the ladies were gone up-stairs we con- 
versed for some time on foreign affairs j he 
mentioned the King of Prussia as a very weak 
man, who by his absurd conduct had exhausted 
his finances, spoilt his army, and given to the 
House of Austria a decided superiority over 
him. Speaking of the Russian business of last 
year, he reprobated in the strongest terms the 
conduct of Fox in sending an agent (Mr, 
Adair) to Petersburg to counteract the nego- 
tiations of this Court at that of Russia. He 
told me he knew lax certain thai Mr. Adair 
had shown to some English merchants at 
Petersburg the Empress's picture set in dia- 
monds which had been given (o him. That it 
was not one of the sort usually given, but of 
much greater value, being set round with 
large brilliants, and the whole picture covered 
with a table diamond instead of crystal. That 

;very particular occasion or to some great 
favorite- (I remember lo have seen such a 
one in the possession of Prince Orlow.) Lord 
St. liclena (nought it most have been worth 
six or seven thousand pounds, and of too much 
value protiably to have been meant fur Mr, 
'-■-■- The conclusion we both very naturally 

( fro 

ible lo Mr. Fox. 
Lord St. Helens, when ambassador at 
St. Petersburg, was a great favorite of the 
empress Catherine. He relates that she 
had a gredt belief in her star ; once when 
he was driving with her the horses ran 
awav furiously and a catastrophe was an- 



ticipated, when they suddenly stopped. 
Catherine said, " Mon ^loile vous a sauvd." 
The followino; anecdote about the em- 
press comes from Lord St. Helens. The 
empress gave frequent whist parties. 

One night, when she was not playing, but 
walking about from table to table, and watch- 
ing the different hands, she rang the bell to 
summon the page-in-waiting from an ante- 
chamber. No page appeared. She rang the 
bell again, and again without effect. Upon 
this she left the room, looking daggers, and 
did not return for a very considerable time, the 
company supposing that the unfortunate page 
was destined to the knout or Siberia. On 
entering the antechamber the Empress found 
that the page — like his betters — was busy at 
whist, and that, when she had rung the bell, 
he happened to have so very interesting a 
hand that he could not make up his mind to 
quit it. Now, what did the Empress do ? She 
despatched tlie page on her errand and then 
quietly sat down to hold his cards till he should 

This was very proper kindness on the 
part of the empress. Nothing is so dis- 
agreeable as leaving the card-table when 
one has a good hand at whist. 

It was our ambassador in Holland who 
was chiefly instrumental in convincing 
Mr. Pitt that a war for the sake of Ocza- 
kow ought not to be undertaken. Europe 
was in a troubled state, and the French 
Revolution in rapid progress. Lord Auck- 
land was vehemently opposed to the war 
with Russia, and that eminent statesman, 
M. Van der Spiegel, the grand pensionary 
of Holland, participated in his sentiments. 
Lord Auckland did not consider that 
Oczakow was worth fighting for. He ob- 
tained an opinion from Admiral Kings- 
bergen, who knew the East well, that 
Sevastopol was the dangerous place from 
whence Constantinople could be suddenly 
attacked. In fact it was idle to fight 
about Oczakow, leaving the Crimean port 
in the hands of the Russians. Mr. Pitt 
was very much impressed with this infor- 
mation, and no doubt it materially inliu- 
enced him in changing his policy. 

Mr. Hutton, the editor of the "Burges 
Papers,'* because Lord Auckland had the 
audacity to differ with Mr. Burges in h\> 
opinions with regard to Oczakow, has 
thought it becoming to virulently assail 
Lord Auckland's public career. Mr, Hut- 
ton informs us that Lord Auckland de- 
serted* the Coalition and look office 
under .Mr. Pitt, but not being satistied, 
turned on his chief and opposed his plans 
in tlie year 17S5. Where on earth did 

* Buries Papers, p. 76. 

Mr. Hutton get this astounding informa- 
tion ? Lord Auckland never took office 
under Mr. Pitt. He was a member of the 
Coalition till the end of the year 1785, and 
led the opposition in that year against the 
Irish propositions. In the latter part of 
1785 Mr. Pitt made a proposition to Lord 
Auckland that he should proceed to Paris 
to negotiate a commercial treaty. Lord 
Auckland accepted the appointment on 
the advice of his friend, Lord Loughbor- 
ough. Then .Mr. Hutton accuses Lord 
Auckland of attacking Mr. Pitt in the 
House of Lords because he had no suffi- 
cient pension ! But the most absurd state- 
ment is, that Lord Grenville "found oat 
Lord Auckland, and being master of the 
situation, rejected him on account of his 
quarrel* with Mr. Pitt, and consigned 
him to the quiet enjoyment of the delights 
of Eden P'arm." VVe never read such 
nonsense. Mr. Hutton has exceeded him- 
self in this passage. Lord Grenville re- 
tired with Pitt from office, and did not 
resume it till after Pitt's death, when he 
was appointed prime minister, and then, 
so far from ** rejecting" Lord Auckland, 
he made him president of the Board of 
Trade, and Lord Auckland became his 
confidential adviser, particularly in mat- 
ters of finance. If Mr. Hutton will coo- 
descend to read through the ** Auckland 
Correspondence " he will find Lord Gren- 
ville and Lord Auckland were on the most 
friendly and confidential terms till the 
death of the latter in 1814. Even Mrs. 
Nickleby was more careful in her histori- 
cal statements, for she says, ** I forget, 
without looking at some letters up-stairs, 
v\hether it was my great-great-grandfather 
who went to school with the Cock Lane 
Ghost, or the Thirsty Woman of Tutbury 
who went to school with my grandmother. 
We hope Mr. Hutton for the future will 
follow the wise example of Mrs. Nicklebj, 
and read before he writes. 

In the unfortunate retreat of the Duke 
of York through Holland in 1794, the 
37th Regiment disappeared, Mr. Bur- 
ges^s military correspondent on the spot 
gives the following account of the cause. 
I It appears it was owing to a drinking lx>ut 
of the Duke of York and his staff. 

General Ronneau's adjutant-general came 

. over wit a a ilag of truce, and Major Hope 

asked him !» stay and dine with the roeM, 

which he di J, anj, drinking too freely of the 

• Lord Aiicl.Iniid postmaster-general ia Mr. 

P;u'-. >:..v.-r...;itn: ; .ind after Mr. Pitt resi)pM€d \n rSoi, 

, lA>r>l A-.:c!;,v.<l nil ic .1 "peuch in the House of L<ordt 

_ whiLM Mr. i\\\. resented. Lord Auckland remaintd ID 

' otiics! 


port, told Major Hope that a French general I do not believe there is a more unhappy 
had crossed the Maese with 60,000 men, and family in the kingdom than that of our good 
meant to attack the whole of the British posts, King. They have lately passed whole hours 
and advised him to fall back, as he knew very together in tears, and after that they do not 
well their cannon was sent off, Hope imme- meet for half a day, but each remains alone, 
diately wrote a report to the adjutant-general's separately brooding over their misfortunes, 
office, and sent it off at eight o'clock at night. The ill-success and disgraces of the Duke of 
It was delivered at ten, and no notice was York, the wounds and ill-health of the Princes 
taken of it till next day that the outposts were Ernest and Adolphus, the bad conduct of 
really attacked, when the Duke, at ten o'clock Princes Edward and Augustus, and the strange 
in the morning, immediately inquired into the caprices and obstinacy of the Prince of Wales 
delay of the letter not being delivered sooner, — all these causes are perpetually preying upon 
and he was informed it had been laying on the them, and make them miserable.' The Queen 
adjutant-general's table all night. A large appears to feel and to suffer the least ; the 
party, one of whom was the adjutant-general. King sometimes bursts into tears, rises up and 
Sir James Craig, were dining with Ii,R.H. the walks about the room, then kisses his daugh« 
Duke of York, where they all got so royally ters, and thanks God for having given them to 
drunk that Sir James was carried to his quar- him to comfort him, by which the Princesses 
ters in a state of insensibility, from which he are variously agitated, and sometimes so much 
was next morning aroused by a summons from so as to go into fits. . . . Lady Elgin also told 
the Duke, on the receipt of intelligence that me that these poor Princesses were in a terrible 
the regiment had been cut off. Great blame state with respect to their finances. The three 
was thrown upon Major Hope, and no one eldest have had each for some time past an 
could guess to what his negligence could be allowance of ;f 2,000 a year, out of which they 
attributed. But the business was soon ex- are obliged to furnish themselves with e very- 
plained, for upon Sir James's return to his thing — clothes, servants* wages, and even 
quarters, he found Major Hope's despatch lying jewels — for neither the King nor the Queen 
on bis table unopened. have ever given them any. The two eldest 

are very prudent, and contrive to live tolerably 

A royal duke, when he is a failure, is within their allowances ; but Princess Elizabeth 

rather embarrassing to a government. He 's a bad economist, and, as she says herself, 

is difficult to remove. Mr. Pitt at last "^"^t go to gaol very soon. I saw Duval, the 

had the painful duty to inform George *^*<? J^ri'^'' yesterday, and asked him if 

the Third that his favorite son had to be '^"^ ^'"^,?^Vm^ ^h-" m'- f t 7' ^'^' 

II J T'u I • • » J r monds. He told me His Majesty had never 

recalled. The king resisted of course, ^ade them any presents of thit sort, but that 

but finally gave way. This did not pre- ^he Princesses had bought of him all they had, 

vent the duke being again sent by Mr. and that upon the whole they paid very well. 

Pitt as commander-in-chief of an expedi- '♦That is," said he, " I really bhlieve they pay 

tion to Holland in the year 1799, which me whenever they have any money." He 

again ended in a disastrous failure. Read- added that he had frequently been ordered to 

crs of the ** Greville Memoirs" will recol- attend at the Queen's house with diamonds, 

led that the Duke of York complained and that he sometimes carried there jewels to 

bitterly about his ill-usage in not being ^^"^ ^™?""* ?^ T'^ than ^20,000: that he 

-x.«* *i ^^^r^^ryA *u^ o .. «, w, i r» c.ot^ i^ al ways hoped, when he displayed them, and 

^ A f^Z 1\ I vv ir ^ ^^ when the Princesses expressed their pleasure 

stead of the Duke of Wellington I ^^ ^^^j^^ ^^^^ beautiful things, that their Maj- 

The king was very much troubled at esties would make them presents. "But no, 

this lime by the conduct of his sons, espe- my dear sir," said he, "no such thing; the 

cially the Prince of Wales. poor Princesses never got even a spark that 

, , X, . ^ ,,r . . . ^hcy did not pay for." 
I understand the Prince of Wales is very far 

from well. He is supposed to have ulcers on There is a curious opinion given as to 

bis lungs, like the late Duke of Cumberland, the levity of the French nation in so fre- 

and was actuallv blooded four times last week, quently changing its government. The 

H.8 physicians have ordered him to live upon foWomng letter was written to Mr. Burges 

French beans and barley-water. He, however, • ,0, - tu^ ir^^^^u u<>..r.i..»:^.. :» J^:ii 

dined on Friday with three hundred officers; "• '^'i- The French Revolution is still 

and, as I am informed, made great havoc of Proceeding. 

sundry savory meats, and much champagne, j happen to be living in the house of a 

daret. and Burgundy. Frenchman, who is really a very clever man. 

Bleeding, beans, and barlev-water! If I^^ "^"*« }>/ '"»'«" '«' '''» cpunfymen is 

the prince had followed the advice of his *>"*• "^ f ''^ >7'"day to me : Monsieur, ■£ 

, K . , ij L 1- J . ever you had a fever, have you not observed 

physicians, he never would have lived to that you turn continually in vour bed, and that 

be George the fourth. y^u endeavor to find rest by turning to one 

Mr. Burges gives a melancholy account side, though you have perhaps turned sleepless 

of the state of the royal family : — from it a hundred times? Monsieur, France, 



for these last five-and'twenty years, has been 
acting the same unhappy part. The fever has 
been her Revolution. Wishing to find a point 
of repose, she has turned on all sides, and has 
grasped at all sorts of Governments. Finding 
herself uneasy with Buonaparte, she turned to 
Louis, for the same reason again to Buona- 
parte, for the same reason again to Louis ; and 
if she still continues unhappy, you will see that 
she will once more turn in despair to Buona- 
parte, or to any one else that may offer her re- 

Mr. Burgees was a poet as well as a poli- 
tician. We never read any of his poetry, 
and we never met with anybody who had. 
The princess Elizabeth was his great ad- 
mirer. Porsoo sneers at his poetry la the 
following lines : — 

Poetis nos Ixtamur tribus 

Pye, Petro Pindar, parvo Pybus, 

Si ulterius ire pergis, 

Adde his Sir James Bland Surges. 

There is in the ** Burges Papers " much 
interesting information respecting the 
progress of the French Revolution. There 
has been much difference of opinion as to 
the relations between Marie Antoinette 
and Count Fersen. Lord Holland in his 
memoirs states that the count was un- 
doubtedly the queen's lover. 1 n our review 
of Count Fersen's memoirs, we expressed 
our total disbelief in this serious accusa- 
tion ; but we are bound to state, that in an 
account of the flight to Varennes given by 
Mr. Quentin Craufurd, he makes the fol- 
lowing statement in a note : — 

This gentleman was Colonel of the Royal 
Suedois, was Her Most Christian Majesty's 
prime favorite, and is generally supposed to be 
the father of the present Dauphin. — Q. C. 

Mr. Quentin Craufurd was the intimate 
friend of Count Fersen, and a devoted 
partisan of Marie Antoinette. His wife 
was deep in the plot to aid the escape of 
the royal family, and therefore his accusa- 
tion is not to be lightly dismissed. It is 
the most serious charge we have ever 

There have been many different state- 
ments as to the conduct of the Duke of 
Orleans, when Madame de Lamballe's 
head was paraded by his windows. The 
following account given by Mr. Lindsay, 
connected with the British Embassy, is 
the true one: — 

Madame de Lamballe was literally torn to 
pieces, in the most cruel and indecent manner. 
Her head and heart were paraded on pikes 
through tiie streets. 

It happened when this murder was com- 
mitted, on Monday, that Lindsay and some 
other Englishmen were at the Duke of Or- 

leans's in the Palais RoyaU As thev were 
waiting for dinner they heard the outcries of a 
vast mob, and going to the window, they saw 
the spectacle of Madame de Lamballe *8 bead 
passing by on its way to the Temple, where 
they were taking it to show it to the Queen. 
Struck with horror at such a .sight, thev retired 
to the farther end of the room, where the Duke 
of Orleans was sitting. He asked what was 
the matter. They told him the mob was car- 
rying a head on a pike. ** Oh,** said he, **is 
that all ? Let us go to dinner." As they were 
at table, he made some inquiries whether the 
women who had been imprisoned were killed ; 
and being informed that many of them were, 
" Pray/' said he, **what is become of Madame 
de Lamballe?" 

M. Walkiers, who was sitting near him, made 
a sign of her having been killed, by passing his 
hand across his throat. '* I understand you," 
said the Duke, and immediately began to con- 
verse on indifferent topics. 

The Duke of Orleans bad been accused 
of cowardice, but he met his fate with the 
greatest courage. When he was before 
the tribunal he occupied himself in read- 
ing a newspaper, and demanded that be 
should be executed as soon as possible. 
His friend, the celebrated roui the Due 
de Biron, better known as the Due de 
Lauzun, behaved with the same eooloess. 
On his way to the place of execution the 
sanguinary mob cried out, "^ la guiikh 
iine^ The due responded, *' On y va^ 
canaille ! " 

There is a curious letter from Madame 
du Barry asking Mr. Burges for a pass- 
port to return to France : — 

Mde. du barry a Thonneur de faire mille 
compliments ^ Monsieur borgesse, — elle Je 
prie de vouloir bien lui faire avoir une passe- 
port pour Mde. Mortimer, dame anglaise desa 
comnoissance, qui part avec elle demain pour 
Paris, et qui compte s en retourner au angle- 
terre dans quelque tems. Mde. du barry est 
I bien fachee d'etre obligee de quitter Londres 
sans avoir eu le plaisir de voir Monsieur bor- 
gesse — il obligera infiniment de lui rendre le 
service qu*elle Lui demande — elle esp^re \, 
son retour, qui sera dans les premiers jours da 
mois prochain, faire tous ses remerciments i 
Monsieur borgesse. 

Madame du Barry returned to France, 
accompanied by her negro servant Zamoro, 
in order to bring back her jewels, which 
she had hidden in her park at Lueienoea. 
Her servant betrayed her to the Revolo- 

I tionary government, and she was quickly 
tried and executed. She is said to have 
been the only woman who showed fear oo 

: the scaffold. The greatest ladies of the 
aristocracy went to the place of execution 
as tranquilly as if they were going to 
church ; Madame du Barry tried to escape 


from the executioner, and ran about the 
scaffold screaroiog for mercy, and pro- 
claiming her devotion to the republic. 

As we are finishing this article, the re- 
sult of the ** Russian Armament '^ of 1885 
is announced. Russia will remain in 
Afghanistan, and henceforth the Indian 
army must be kept on a war footing, and 
the ruin of the finances of India will be 
accomplished. Perhaps it is considered 
safer to have peace with dishonor than 
war without an ally. Be that as it may, it 
is a sad day for England when the foreign 
secretary announces in the House of 
Lords that England is retreating before 
France in £i;ypt, and Russia in India. 
Lord Granville has been in a state of ab- 
ject apology so long that he does not seem 
to be in the least degree humiliated. 
*' He scatters his ashes with a jaunty air, 
and wears his sackcloth as if it were a 
robe of honor." 

From Good Words. 


In the year 1798 a Quaker couple took 
up their abode at Coleiord, in the Forest 
of Dean. The wife was four-and-thirty, 
and the husband four years her senior. 
Th'ey were sedate, according to the prin- 
ciples of their sect, and held their pecul- 
iar tenets with a firmess which gave a tone 
of severity to their lives. They went 
thither to commence a new chapter of life, 
trusting, with the divine blessing, — it was 
thus that they spoke of their heavenly 
Father, — it would be the beginning of a 
prosperous career. They had left a com- 
fortable home in the county of Stafford, 
to which the husband, two years before, 
had taken the wife whom he had just mar- 
ried in Glamorganshire. They now 
brought with them their first-born, a lovely 
little girl, Anna by name, who, in the 
quaint, demure costume of her parents* 
sect, looked like an infant saint, whilst her 
attendant, a grave young Quakeress, re- 
sembled a nun. 

They were Samuel and Ann Botham. 
He was a land surveyor, a profession 
which then ranked with the civil engineer 
of the present day, and although fully and 
profitably employed in his calling, pos- 
sessed a strong propensity to speculate 
either in coal or iron. A lopg sojourn in 
Shropshire had made him intimately ac- 
quainted with the Darbys of Coalbrook- 
dale. They had a cordial regard for him, 


and may have stimulated his interest in 
iron forges. With two Shropshire gentle- 
men, the brothers Bishton, he entered 
into partnership in some iron works in 
South Wales ; also in some new works to 
be established in the Forest of Dean. 

It was for the management of the new 
undertaking, of which he was the chief 
shareholder, that he had removed with 
wife and child to Coleford. Property 
had been purchased ; forges had to be 
erected. In the autumn of 1798 the first 
direction was satisfactorily begun. But 
the winter set in early with great sever- 
ity. Deep snows fell, succeeded by ex- 
cessive rain. *' Nothing could be more 
gloomy," wrote the wife: "the brooks 
rose like rivers, flooding the new erec- 
tions, and threatening to carry away all 
before them." To add to these disasters, 
astonishment and dismay filled their 
hearts, from a growing conviction that the 
absent partners intended to screen them- 
selves from all loss and responsibility. 
The anxious couple saw not only disap- 
pointment, but ruin before them. 

"It was in this time of sore anxiety," 
again writes the wife, " that Mary, our 
second daughter, was born on the 12th 
of third month, 1799. My husband was 
desponding, and nothing but a firm reli- 
ance on Providence supported me. 1 
never lost faith to believe that He who 
careth for the sparrows would, in his own 
time, raise us out of this gulf of destruc- 
tion, and show us the way he would have 
us to go." 

Respecting the names of the two chil- 
dren, who were my sister and myself, I 
may add that she was called Anna (Grace, 
for the Lord was gracious to our parents) 
and I Mary (Marah, or bitterness, as I 
came at a time of dire trouble and anx- 
iety). I do not know that our names were 
intentionally chosen as appropriate at the 
time, but remember as a child our parents 
remarking on their significance. 

Both our father and mother had brave 
hearts, and what appeared to them right 
in the sight of God they carried out. 
Winding up their affairs at Coleford, they 
resolved to return to his home and native 
place, Uttoxeter. Thither they repaired ; 
my father, strengthened in his belief that 
he must not attempt to make money out- 
side his profession. Money had been 
abundantly provided for him by that 
means, why then should he hanker after 
wealth from iron or from coal ? Yet, 
strange to say, these sources of specula- 
tion ever remained his temptation. 

But to conclude the Coleford expert- 

1 84 


ence, it is satisfactory to state that four or 
five years later, when the trouble lived 
only in remembrance, my father was sur- 
prised to receive from his former partners 
the full amount of money, which should 
have been their share of outlay. 

Nor did my parents ever forget the 
sympathetic kindness which they experi- 
enced durin;^: that anxious episode from a 
wealthy Quaker couple at Ross. A little 
dauo^hter had been born to them just 
about the time of my birth. These chil- 
dren were surely intended to be friends, 
and through the Divine love we are so to 
old age. 

I must now elucidate my narrative with 
a few particulars respecting my father and 
his parentage. He was descended from a 
long line of farmers, who had lived for 
centuries in primitive simplicity on their 
own property, Appsford, situated in the 
bleak northern part of Staffordshire, 
known as the Moorlands. It was a wild, 
solitary district, remote from towns, and 
only half cultivated, with wide stretches 
of brown moors, where the undisturbed 
pewits wailed through the long summer 
day. Solitary houses miles apart stood 
here and there. Villages were far distant 
from each other There was little church- 
going, and education was at the lowest ebb. 

The town of Leek, in itself a primitive 
place, might be called the capital of this 
wild district. It was the resort of the 
rude farmers on the occasion of fairs and 
markets. Strange brutal crimes occurred 
from time to time, the report of which 
came like a creeping horror to the lower 
country. Sordid, penurious habits pre- 
vailed", the hoarding of money was con- 
sidered a great virtue. 

The Bothams of Appsford, who had 
accepted the teaching of George Fox, 
might be preserved by their principles 
from the coarser habits and ruder tastes 
of their neighbors, but retined or learned 
they certainly were not. The sons, walk- 
ing in the footsteps of their fathers, culti- 
vated the soil; the daughters attended to 
the house and dairv, as their mothers had 
done before them. They rode on good 
horses, saddled and pillioned, to meeting 
at Leek on Firstday mornings; and were 
a well-to-do, orderly set of people. 

Now and then a son or dau;;hter mar- 
ried *• out of the society," as it was termed ; 
and so split off like a branch from the 
family tree with a great crash of displeas- 
ure from the parents, and **disownment,'' 
as it was called, from the .Monthly Mect- 
ini;. In the ancient records of the Staf- 
fordshire Monthly .Meeting preserved by 

the Friends of Leek, they appear, how- 
ever, to have been generally satisfactory 
members, living up to the old staodard of 
integrity of their ancestress Mary; who, 
a widow at the head of the house in the 
days of Quaker persecution, was impris* 
oned in Stafford gaol for refusing to pay 

Years glided uneventfully on, s^^nera* 
tion followed generation, until 1745, when 
the rumor that ** the Scotch rebels were 
approaching" filled the scattered inhab- 
itants of the Moorlands with terror. Even 
the quiet Friend, John Botham of Apps* 
ford, might have prepared to fight; one 
thing is certain, he hurried wife* and cbil* 
dren out of the way and buried his plate 
and valuables. But there was no need of 
fighting and hardly of fear. The Scotch 
and Highland soldiers that came to that 
secluded spot only demanded food. They 
sliced the big, round cheeses and toasted 
them on their claymores at the kitchen 
fire. James Botham, the youngest son of 
the house, then a lad of ten or twelve, and 
who died at the age of eighty-nine, watch* 
ing them thus employed, talked of it to 
the last. 

John Botham, like another King Lear, 
divided his property during his lifetime 
amongst his children, three sons and two 
daughters. But his eldest son, another 
John, although he received as his portion 
the comfortable old homestead, being nat* 
urally of a roaming, sociable disposition* 
removed in the year 1750, at the age of 
twenty-seven, to Uttoxeter, in the more 
southern part of the county. A small but 
long-established company of Friends, con* 
sisting of the two families, Shipley and 
Summerland, resided there. William Ship- 
ley's sister, Rebecca Summerland, a come- 
ly, well-endowed widow between thirty 
and forty, living in a house of her own, 
may have been from the first an attraction 
to the new-comer from the Moorlands. 

She had married quite young, and had 
at the time of which I speak two sons, re- 
markably tall and stout youths, both amply 
provided for, and quite ready to be their 
own masters. Many men had looked 
upon the widow as a desirable wife, but 
she had declined all proposals, until wooed 
and woo by John Botham ; and on the last 
day of the year 1754 she became his wife, 
being six years his senior. 

Their first son was born in 1756 and 
called James ; their second, Samuel, in 

Here I may mention a favorite playmate 

of SamuePs childhood, his first cousin, 

Ann Shipley, two years bis junior. In 


after years she and another first cousin, 
Morris Shipley, fell in love with each 
other; and as the rules of the society to 
which they belonged did not allow of first 
cousins marrying, they set off to Gretna 
Green, and returned man and wife, to the 
great scandal of the Friends, by whom 
they were disowned, but afterwards rein- 
stated in membership. Emigrating to 
America, they settled in New York State, 
and were the progenitors of the important 
banking firm of that name. She died in 
1843. 'o ^^^ ninety-fourth year of her age, 
and in the full use of her faculties. My 
youngest sister, Emma, then residing in 
America, had called on her and been most 
kindly received. 

My grandmother's second marriage 
brought her much disquietude. It was an 
enduring displeasure to her sons, and 
made, I am afraid, a considerable breach 
in the hitherto united meeting. I use here 
the phraseology of Friends, meeting in 
this sense being equivalent to church or 
religious body. She speedily discovered, 
moreover, that her husband had no faculty 
for regular business. He was an amateur 
doctor, with a turn for occult sciences and 
animal magnetism. He used metallic 
tracters, then in vogue, and prepared vege- 
table snuffs and medicines. His roving 
sociableness, combined with a love of 
nature, caused him to spend much time 
amongst friends and acquaintances up 
and down the country. His accredited 
healing powers, his grave and scriptural 
way of talking, the interest he took in 
mowing, reaping, and other agricultural 
pursuits, perhaps in remembrance of his 
early years at Appsford, made him wel- 
come in many a village and farmhouse ; 
whilst he on his part cast aside his wife's 
anxieties and all needful forethought for 
the future of their two sons. 

Rebecca Botham, therefore, took upon 
herself the entire management of affairs. 
She sent the lads to the best-reputed 
Friends' school of that time, kept by Jo- 
seph Crossfield, at Hartshill, in Warwick- 
shire. Later on she provided handsome 
apprentice fees, and decided their callings 
in life. It is, or was then, a principle with 
Friends that their sons, of whatever rank 
by birth, must be educated to follow some 
useful trade or profession. Law was for- 
bidden to them, and but few, strange to 
say, were educated for the practice of 
medicine, although the art of healing ap- 
pears peculiarly consonant with their hu- 
mane and benevolent sentiments. 

She placed James with a merchant, the 
father of a schoolfellow, with whom be 


had formed a strong friendship, and who 
dwelt in Lancaster, at that time a place of 
greater maritime and commercial impor- 
tance than Liverpool. She apprenticed 
Samuel to William Fairbank, of Sheffield, 
one of the most noted land surveyors, 
whether amongst Friends or others. 

Unfortunately, the ever-prudent and 
affectionate mother died before her young- 
est son returned to Uttoxeter to establish 
himself there in his profession. On his so 
doing he made an appalling discovery. 
His father had mortgaged the greater part 
of his wife's property, and a considerable 
portion of the income that remained was 
needful to pay the interest. 

The ill-will with which the elder half- 
brothers regarded their mother's second 
marriage was increased by these after-cir- 
cumstances. They considered that they 
had not only been robbed of their birth- 
right, but that it had been squandered by 
their step-father. 

It was a joyless beginning of life to my 
father. He was, however, young, and en- 
dowed with some of his mother's spirit and 
determination. He sold some of the less 
valuable property to free the rest. He was 
also enabled speedily to make money, be- 
ing employed to enclose the heath, an 
extent of common land to the north of the 
town, and which fell like a gift of God's 
providence into his hands. This and 
other professional earnings, and the as- 
sistance of his brother James, who had 
settled in Liverpool as a broker in West 
Indian produce, gradually enabled him to 
redeem the mortgaged estate. Yet even 
this praiseworthy success was clouded by 
the death of his brother, who was carried 
off by fever only six months after his mar- 
riage to a young Friend of Lancaster. 

My father seldom spoke of the sorrow- 
ful commencement of his career. He re- 
lated, however, on one occasion, what in a 
moment of weakness and failing trust in 
God he had been tempted to do. In those 
days a popular belief in the occult power 
oi so-called witches prevailed. The most 
noted witch of the period and locality was 
Witch Hatton, who lived in the high 
Moorlands, from where his father came. 
To her he went in the darkest time of his 
perplexity, when he could see no possible 
means of rescuing his father's affairs from 
their terrible entanglement. He never 
revealed to us, his daughters, what the 
witch had said or done. He simply told 
us, with a shuddering emotion, ** He had 
left the house with deep self-abasement, 
inasmuch as he saw that he had been la 
the abyss of evil." 



About the same period he took the live- 
liest interest in the first outbreak of the 
French Revolution, in the supposition 
that it would lead to the release of the 
Christian mind from **the fetters of pop- 
ery/' as he termed it. He and two of his 
acquaintances in Uttoxeter, a young law- 
yer and a young man of fortune, after- 
wards a banker, joined in the same news- 
papers, and met regularly for the discus- 
sion of events which might usher in the 
second coming of Christ and the dawn of 
a new day of human brotherhood. His 
Quaker principles, however, scrupled at 
many deeds and utterances over which 
his associates rejoiced. He began to per- 
ceive that something more abhorrent even 
than popery was evolved in the vaunted 
liberty and equality. By degrees his 
friends came to regard him as a renegade, 
and withdrew their intimacy, but not their 
personal regard. They themselves re- 
mained firm friends. As married men 
they resided near each, other and their 
wives and children were on the best 
terms ; and when death carried o£E the 
lawyer, the banker, true to a last request, 
walked once a year over his grave, that he 
lying below might know that he was not 
forgotten by his oldest friend. 

In the threatening aspect of public 
affairs, English landowners appear to have 
become anxious about the amount of 
acres in their possession, and my father 
found constant employment. On one oc- 
casion dispute having arisen regarding the 
measurement of an estate which he was 
called in to adjust, the rival surveyor, on 
seeing the methodical way in which he 
set to work, withdrew the very first day, 
on the plea that it was no use measuring 
land as if it were gold. 

The extreme accuracy of my father's 
work was, however, appreciated by land- 
owners ; and consequently many large 
estates in Sta£fordshire, Shropshire, and 
even in South Wales were measured by 

When thus employed in 1795 on the 
Talbot estate at Margam, he attended the 
Firstday meeting of Friends at Neath, and 
met, at the hospitable table of Evan Rees, 
Ann Wood, a convinced Friend, on a visit 
to Evan's wife Elizabeth. 

They saw each other frequently, and be- 
came well acquainted. On one occasion, 
at dinner, slie suddenly learned his re- 
gard for her by the peculiar manner in 
which he asked, *' Wilt thou take some 
nuis, Ann Wood ? " 

She took them, saying, " 1 am fond of 

"That is extraordinary," he replied^ 
"for so am I." 

There was in those parts an aged minis- 
tering Friend of so saintly a character as 
to be regarded in the light of a prophet. 
One Firstday morning after they had both 
been present at meeting, this minister 
drew her aside and said, " If Samuel Both- 
am make thee an offer of marriage, thou 
must by no means refuse him." 

Accordingly he was before long her ac- 
cepted suitor. In the year 1796, on the 
sixth day of twelfth month, they took each 
other for man and wife after the pre- 
scribed simple form, " in the fear of God 
and in the presence of that assembly.'* 
They were married in the Friends' meet- 
ing-house at Swansea, where the bride's 
mother then resided. 

In the marriage certificate my father is 
stated to be an ironmaster of Uttozeter, 
Staffordshire. He must therefore have 
considered the iron works, with which be 
was then connected, as the established 
business of his life. 

My mother was attired in a cloth habit, 
which was considered suitable for the lon^ 
journey she was to commence on the wed* 
ding-day. She travelled with her husband 
post into a remote and unknown land, and 
as they journeyed onward the weather 
grew colder and drearier day by dav. 
They were to set up house in the old 
home where he had been born, and his 
father was to live with them. 

From All The Year Round. 

Not very many years ago, within the 
recollection, indeed, of middle-aged men, 
the taste for music in England, although 
gradually increasing, was still compara- 
tively in its infancy, and, as far as the 
masses were concerned, to all intents and 
purposes a dead letter. There was cer- 
tainly a traditional reverence, warming into 
a temporary enthusiasm on the recurrence 
of triennial festivals, for Handel, and a 
growing respect, fostered by the precept 
and example of Charles Hall^, for the 
genius of Beethoven ; but the votaries of 
these masters were mainly limited to the 
frequenters of the Philharmonic and Exe- 
ter Hall; the public in general knew little 
' about either, and cared less. We bad two 
. opera-houses, more or less well attended 
according to the success or failure of the 
! last imported vocalist, but regarded rather 
. as a necessary accompaniment to the 


London season than from any purely 
artistic point of view; the chief object of 
the subscribers being to show themselves 
in their stalls or boxes on certain nights 
of the week, with the placid 9onsciousness 
of having done the correct thing. Those 
were the days when barrel-organs revelled 
in "Ah che la Morte" and "The Bohe- 
mian Girl;" when the ballads of Claribel 
were on every piano, and Wagner was the 
bite noire of classical irreconcilables ; 
when the slightest departure from estab- 
lished rules was looked upon as an unpar- 
donable heresy, and the daring innova- 
tions of Liszt and Berlioz were contemp- 
tuously stigmatized as cacophany. 

Who would then have believed or even 
admitted the possibility of a change such 
as a few short years have brought with 
them, or in his wildest flight of imagina- 
tion have anticipated so complete a real- 
ization of the Jerroldian motto, "Time 
works wonders " ? Had we then been 
told that the simple announcement of a 
symphony by some new light of the mod- 
ern school, or the reappearance of some 
popular instrumentalist, would one day 
suffice to fill the Crystal Palace Concert 
Room or St. James's Hall to overflowing, 
should we not have shrugged our shoul- 
ders in polite incredulity, and inwardly 
laughed our informant to scorn ? And 
yet such things are; we may marvel at the 
transformation, but it is nevertheless an 
accomplished fact, "which,'' as the song 
says, "nobody can deny." Within the 
last decade music has become not merely 
an attraction, but a necessity ; it is no 
longer exceptionally cultivated by the few, 
but has little by little enlisted and retained 
the sympathies of the many; nor, as far 
as can be judged by appearances, is its 
influence likely to decrease. There are, 
of course, and always will be, differences 
of opinion as to the merits or demerits of 
any particular school ; and much yet re- 
mains to be done before we can fairly lay 
claim to the faculty of recognizing talent 
wherever it is to be found; but that there 
is a decided improvement in this respect 
it is impossible to deny. Unless, indeed, 
people irequent musical gatherings simply 
because it is the fashion to do so, and vol- 
untarily undergo the infliction of listening 
to a performance they neither understand 
nor appreciate, which is scarcely credible, 
we may sately conclude that the closely 
packed audiences periodically congregated 
together have nothing in common with 
Paourge's sheep, but — whether the in- 
ducement be a symphony, a sonata, or a 
ballad olla podrida — consult their own 


taste, and " go in " for Raff, Brahms, or 
Mr. Molloy as the fancy prompts them. 
Music, therefore, being clearly an estab- 
lished institution among us, it is possible 
that the following anecdotal reminiscences 
of some of its chief interpreters, selected 
from authentic and by no means generally 
known sources, may not be considered 

On one of the last appearances of Beet- 
hoven in public, he was announced to play 
a new work of his composition for piano 
and orchestra. It having been reported, 
and truly as it turned out, that, owing to 
his increasing deafness he would seldom 
be again heard in a concert-room, the at- 
tendance was naturally large and the re- 
ception of the composer, when he took 
his place at the instrument, was most 
enthusiastic. By some unaccountable 
freak of imagination, however, he fancied 
himself officiating as conductor, and on 
coming to a "fortissimo" passage sud- 
denly crossed his arms, and let them go 
right and left with such force as to send 
the candles on each side of the piano fly- 
ing about the room. Irritated by this 
interruption, but happily unconscious of 
the merriment he had excited, he recom- 
menced playing; two boys, candle in hand, 
having meanwhile by way of precaution 
been stationed beside the instrument On 
the recurrence of the passage in question 
he performed the same manoeuvre as be- 
fore, and although one of the candle-bear- 
ers prudently kept himself out of harm's 
way, the other, less fortunate, was literally 
knocked head over heels. This time the 
mirth of the audience knew no bounds, 
and Beethoven, in a transport of fury, 
after venting his rage on the piano by 
entirely demolishing half-a-dozen notes, 
rose abruptly from his chair, and without 
taking the slightest notice of any one 
present, strode indignantly out of the 
room, leaving his astounded fellow-musi- 
cians to propitiate the public as best they 

From 1829 to i860, with few exeptions, 
Meyerbeer passed the summer months 
every year at Spa. An eye-witness thus 
describes him : " He was invariably 
dressed in an ill-fltting black frock-coat, 
with a black silk neckcloth wound several 
times round his throat, high and stifiE 
shirt-collars, and tight trousers with straps. 
His gloves were many sizes too large for 
him, and he wore a tall silk hat falling not 
over-gracetully on the nape of his neck« 
He always carried a huge cotton umbrella 
under his left arm when he didn't use it 
as a walking-stick. When on foot, he 



shambled along with a tottering step as if 
he were blind ; but his usual mode of 
locomotion was an insecure seat on a 
donkey, his le<^s dangling almost on the 
ground, in which guise he might regularly 
be seen of an afternoon in the AU^e du 

Jules Janin used to relate with great 
glee that during his stay at Spa, on re- 
turning from an excursion in the neigh- 
borhood, he asked his servant if any one 
had called. ** Nobody worth speaking of/* 
was the contemptuous answer; "only the 
queer old fellow on a donkey with a large 
umbrella!'' Among the composer's pe- 
culiarities was a horror of cats, the mere 
sight of one throwing him into a nervous 
fit. He was, as a rule, silent in company, 
and disliked being brought in contact with 
inquisitive people. One of these, meeting 
him while he was enjoying a solitary 
** constitutional'* in the Champs Elys^es, 
fastened on him like a leech; and, anx- 
ious to have the latest intelligence from 
the fountain-head as to the progress of 
the long-expected ** Africaine," asked him 
point-blank if it were nearly ready. " Mon- 
sieur,*' coolly replied Meyerbeer, "the 
Champs Elys^es are open to every one, 
but my secrets are not like the Champs 
Elys^es ; *' and turned on his heel, leaving 
the indiscreet questioner no wiser than 
be was before. 

As a memorial of his frequent visits to 
Spa, a charmingly picturesque promenade 
artistically laid out near the spring of the 
Gdronslere by order of the municipality, 
records the titles of the composer*s prin- 
cipal works. A tiny waterfall like a silver 
thread is called " La Cascade de Ploer- 
mel ; " a flight of steps composed of 
roughly hewn stones represents ** L*£sca- 
lier du Proph^te;*' a wooden bridge is 
dignitied by the name of " Le Pont de 
Marcel ; " and two recesses, where benches 
are placed for the accommodation of vis- 
itors, are respectively denominated '• Le 
Repos de Pierre et Catherine *' and " Le 
Repos de Raoul." 

Meyerbeer's tidus Achates in Paris was 
a little Frenchman, Gouin by name, whose 
duty it was to act as intermediary with 
managers and journalists, to depreciate 
the works of rival composers, and to be 
perpetually at his patron's beck and call. 
One evening at the opera, perceiving that 
the latter was engaged in conversation 
with a certain Chaudt^, an intimate friend 
of the director of the (then) Acad^mie 
Royale de Musique, he modestly remained 
in the background until the interview was 
at an end. Presently Meyerbeer, turning 

round in search of his satellite, beckoned 
to him to approach. 

"Gouin!" began the maestro, with a 
pronounced nasal twang, "the man I have 
just been talking to is a very intelligcDt 

Gouin signified his assent by a bow. 

"He has a high opinion of my *Pro- 
ph^le.* " 

" No wonder.** 

"And inquired particularly about my 

" Very natural." 

"And yet I never saw him before. 
How do you call him ? *' 


" Has he anything to do with the Op* 
era ? '* 

" A great deal.** 

" Ah I Who and what is he ? ** 

After a moment's reflection, his com* 
panion replied in a confidential tone, but 
loud enough to be heard by those around 
him: — 

" He is the manager*s Gouin.** 

When Adolphe Adam came to London, 
in order to superintend the production of 
his "Postilion de Longjumeau*' — charm- 
ingly sung, by the way, by that most agree* 
able and sympathetic vocalist. Miss Rain* 
forth — his entire ignorance of English 
caused him no little embarrassment; and 
he used to relate an amusing anecdote of 
his interview with an apothecary equally 
unskilled in French. Neither of them 
being able to understand a word the other 
said, the composer bethought himself of 
trying Latin, and inquired as classically 
as he could how often he ought to take 
certain pills that had been prescribed for 

" Capiendum totft nocte,'* gravely re- 
plied the chemist. 

"I was horrified,** said Adam, "at the 
thought of passing the whole night in 
swallowing pills, and applied to roy physH 
cian, who laughingly assured me that the 
apothecary's Latin intended to signify, 
' to be taken every evening.' ** 

While Hal^vy — the most conscientious 
of musicians — was putting the finishing 
touch to his " Mousquetaires de la Reine," 
he heard some one in the courtyard of the 
house where he lived singing an air which 
seemed familiar to him. On listening at* 
tentively, he recognized it as one of his 
latest inspirations for the new work, and 
flew into a violent rage, accusing himself 
of having involuntarily appropriated the 
idea of another composer. Ringing for 
his servant, he bade him ascertain who 
the singer was, and presently he learnt 


that he was one of the workmen employed 
io painting the outside of the house. 

*'Ask him to come up here," said Ha- 
I^vy; and, on the man's appearance, in- 
quired where he had first heard the air he 

had been sinking. 

foi, monsieur," replied the indi- 
vidual addressed, " I picked it up the other 
day out of a piece they were rehearsing at 
the Opdra Comique, while we were re- 
paintinc: the interior." 

"Ah ! *' said Hal^vy, with a sigh of re- 
lief, " you have an excellent memory ; but," 
he added, half in soliloquy, " I was terri- 
bly afraid that mine was a better one ! " 

Amon^ the innumerable visitors to Ros- 
sini's villa, at Passy, was a certain Italian 
marquis, an amateur musician of no par- 
ticularly good repute, who continually pes- 
tered the maestro for an autographic 
recommendation of his compositions, on 
the plea that he was a poor man, and that 
such a testimonial would materially in- 
crease their sale. Wearied by his impor- 
tunities, the author of "Guillaume Tell" 
at last consented, and complied with the 
request as follows : — 

" I have a very agreeable recollection 

of the Marquis de S 's music. 

"G. Rossini." 

This passport to fame was, of course, 
triumphantly exhibited by the recipient, 
and one of the writer's friends, happening 
to see it, inquired how he could possibly 
have expressed a favorable opinion of 
music which was a barefaced imitation of 
his own. 

" Perhaps that is why I like it," replied 
Rossini with a twinkle in his eye. *' It is 
always pleasant, you know, to recognize 
ao old acquaintance." 

One of the many postulants for his ap- 
probation was a young musician, who 
brought him a funeral march of his com- 
position in memory of Meyerbeer, lately 
dead. Rossini looked through it atten- 

•* Not bad," he said, " but it would have 
been still better if Meyerbeer had written 
It in memory of you." 

The same irrepressible humorist briefly 
summed up his opinion as to the relative 
merits of Mendelssohn and Wagner by 
saying that, whereas the former had com- 
posed "songs without words," the latter 
had only written " words without songs." 

Offenbach's passion for roulette was 

Sroverbial. When his " Princesse de Tr^ 
izonde " was produced at the Baden The- 
atre, the major part of the liberal honora- 
rium received for it speedily returned to 


M, Dupressoir*s coffers through the me- 
dium of the croupier's rake. 

" If this goes on," dryly remarked Mat- 
tre Jacques to a fellow-sufferer, while their 
respective stakes were bemg swept away, 
" I shall soon not have a note left." 

"You are luckier than I am," ruefully 
observed his companion, "for your head 
is full of them." 

"That may be," retorted OEEenbach, 
" but, unfortunately, they don't pass cur- 
rent at the roulette." 

During his stay there, I remember his 
exhibiting with great delight to a circle of 
Parisian journalists the washing-bill of a 
local laundress, evidently desirous of 
displaying her proficiency in the Gallic 
tongue; one item of which especially fas- 
cinated him. 

" How do you think she has spelt * trois 
paires de chaussettes '.^" he asked one 
after another. " You'll never guess, if 
you try for a week ; " and, extracting from 
his pocket-book the document in question, 
he handed it round with a broad grin of 
intense enjoyment. It ran thus: — 

" 3 p^res cho 7." 

During Weber's short sojourn in Paris, 
on his way to London in 1826, two things 
appear principally to have caught his 
fancy, Boieldieu's new opera, " La Dame 
Blanche," and the excellence of the oys- 
ters. Writing of the former to Winkler, 
he bids him have it translated, put on the 
stage by " Musje " Marschner, and played 
as soon as possible, saying, — 

" Such a comic opera has never been 
composed since the • Figaro.'" 

In a notice of Wagner, recently pub- 
lished in Germany, the following anecdote 
is related of one of his visits to Cologne. 
At the hotel where he was staying, the 
best suite of rooms were occupied by a 
Prussian general, who had arrived on a 
tour of inspection. One evening, while at 
work in his solitary chamber, the sound 
of music immediately under his window 
struck the composer's ear. It was doubt- 
less a serenade in his honor, and he nat- 
urally felt gratified by the flattering atten- 
tion. When it was over, he opened the 
window, and was beginning to express his 
thanks to the performers in wel)-chosea 
terms, when, to his surprise and confusion, 
his harangue was interrupted by a voice 
from below rudely bidding him hold his 
tongue, and intimating, amid roars of 
laughter from the assembled spectators, 
that the compliment was not intended for 
him, but for the general 1 

The only French musician for whom 
Wagner appears to have entertained a 



real friendship was Victor Mass^, then 
holding the important post of chef des 
chceurs at the Opera, and one of the few 
Parisian appreciators of the foredoomed 
** Tannhauser." The other principal com- 
posers were either hostile or indi£Eerent, 
and the critics, almost without exception, 
dead a<;ainst the new-comer. The latter's 
great crime, however, in the opinion of 
the Jockey Club, was his very natural re- 
fusal to permit the interpolation of a ballet, 
and one of that body gravely justified his 
share in the disturbance which took place 
on the third and last performance of the 
work by saying, — 

" If the piece had been allowed to stand 
on its own merits, it might have had a 
run, and how could we possibly have 
shown ourselves in the /^^r without even 
^rat to talk to!" 

The well known pianist, Leopold de 
Meyer, is the hero of an anecdote which, 
se non I vero I ben trovato. He was 
playing some years ago before an arch- 
duke of Austria, and in his anxiety to 
please his illustrious auditor, exerted him- 
self so strenuously that he literally per- 
spired at every pore. At the conclusion 
of the concert, the archduke deigned to 
express a wish that the artist should be 
presented to him. 

** Monsieur." blandly remarked his im- 
perial highness, ** I have heard Thalberg 
(a pause, and a low bow from the pianist), 
** 1 have heard Liszt " (another pause, and 
a still lower bow); ** but I never yet met 
with any one " (a third pause, and a quasi- 
genuflection on the part of Leopold de 
Meyer) " who perspired as you do ! " 

From The Saturday Review. 

Whatever difference of opinion there 
may be a^ to his character, his principles, 
or his aims, there can be no question 
that Gregory VII., if not the greatest, is 
at least the grandest and most striking 
figure in iht: long line of two hundred and 
fiity-eight pontiffs who have sat succes- 
sively on the throne of St. Peter. There 
is something more distinctly apostolic 
about the firm but gentle ancl beneficent 
rule of his earliest namesake in the pa- 
pacy, Gregory the Great, who has more- 
over a special and abiding claim on the 
grateful reverence of Englishmen. Yet 
the tirj?t thought of every student of eccle- 
sicisiical history, even though he be an 
Englishman, on hearing the name of Greg- 

ory, is sure to be, not of the great mis« 
sionary pope, who resolved to convert 
England as he gazed on the ** aogel " faces 
of the fair-haired Anglo-Saxon slave- 
boys in the Roman market-place, but of 
the proud dispenser of earthly crowos 
and strong-wristed reformer of a corrupt 
church, who uttered no idle boast when 
he compared the papacy and the Empire 
to the greater and lesser lights in the fir- 
mament of heaven, and summed up his 
own wonderful career with substantial 
accuracy, if with some pardonable exag- 
geration, in his dying words at Salerno* 
" I have loved righteousness and hated 
iniquity, and therefore I die in exile.'* At 
any period and under any circumstances 
only a master mind could have left a mark 
like his on the entire later history of 
Christendom. It is true that he held an 
office, not then indeed or till many cento- 
ries afterwards regarded by anybody as 
infallible, but looked up to by all as visibly 
representing the royalty of Christ in the 
government of his earthly Church. But 
on the other hand the actual reign of 
Gregory extended over no more than 
twelve years, while during the previous 
quarter of a century, under five successful 
pontiffs who were virtually his nominees 
and his instruments, he had been the real 
ruler of the Church. And moreover it 
must be remembered that the papacy, 
when he came to its rescue, so far from 
offering a vantage-ground for his enter- 
prise to a born ruler of men, had sunk 
into a state of utter and seemingly hope* 
less degradation, not for a few years or a 
few pontificates, but for about a century 
and a half, which has had no parallel 
before or since, except perhaps under the 
scandalous administration of Alexander 
VI. But Alexander reigned for ten years 
only, and if neither his immediate prede* 
cessors or successors were models of 
sanctity, they were respectable as com- 
pared to him, and some of them were men 
of no mean ability. But it was far other- 
wise with that terrible "iron age,** the 
tenth and beginning of the eleventh cen- 

a dark and dreadful time» 
The heaven all blood, the wearied earth all 

when men said that '* Christ was sleeping 
in the ship,** and prophecies of his speedy 
return to judge the world were rife on 
every side. The papal office had lost 
alike its religious character and its claioi 
to moral purity. ** For above a century 
tlie ciiief priest of Christendom,** to cite 
Mr. Bryce's words, " was no more than a 



tool of some ferocious faction among the 
nobles. Criminal means had raised him 
to the throne; violence, sometimes going 
the length of mutilation or murder, de- 
prived him of it/' 

Gregory VII. had, as we have seen, 
enormous difficulties to contend against, 
but he had two immense advantages, one 
in his own transcendent genius, one in 
the circumstances of his age. He had, 
as has been justly remarked, that rarest 
and grandest of gifts, an intellectual cour- 
age and power of imagination which ac- 
cepts with all their consequences and 
dares to carry out in act the principles it 
has once firmly grasped ; and this power 
it was which enabled him not simply to 
deduce in theory, but to apply and enforce 
in his policy, the logical conclusion of 
principles which in our day would be 
widely disputed within as well as without 
the pale of Roman obedience, but which 
no Catholic ventured openly to question 
then. Henry IV. might challenge Greg- 
ory's application of his principles, but only 
at the peril of his soul and of his crown 
could he presume to challenge their truth. 
To quote Mr. Bryce once more, " Nobody 
dreamed of denying his principles; the 
reasonings by which hei established the 
superiority of spiritual to temporal juris- 
diction were unassailable." That indeed 
was h\s fulcrum to move the world ; the 
logical force of his reasoning was irre- 
sistible, but it was a masterpiece of genius 
to make logic into a practical reality. 

It would be absurd within our present 
limits to attempt even a slight sketch of 
the eventful pontificate of Hildebrand,and 
his reforming' government of the Church 
really began, as was intimated just now, 
twenty-five years earlier with the acces- 
sion of Leu IX. It must suffice very 
briefly to indicate her^ the two main ob- 
jects at which he aimed, and in both of 
which to a large extent he succeeded; in 
the one case the result of his policy lasted 
for many centuries, in the other his great 
reform has fixed, for good or for evil, the 
discipline of the Latin Church from that 
day to our own. But let us first say a 
word on what may be called the political 
side of his work, his emancipation of the 
Church from secular control. One part 
of that task was accomplished under his 
influence, but several years before he him- 
self became pope, when in 1 159 Nicholas 
II. in a synod held at the Lateran trans- 
ferred the right of election to the papacy 
from the clergy and people of Rome, who 
had so grossly abused their privilege, to 
the College of Cardinals, a formal reser- 
vation being made — which was neither 

intended nor destined to be more than a 
form — of the imperial right of confirma- 
tion. It was not so easy to settle the long 
quarrel of investitures, nor was it finally 
settled till nearly forty years after Greg* 
ory's death by the Concordat of Worms, 
ratified at the first Lateran Council in 
1 123. But he had himself already struck 
the decisive blow, when at a Roman synod 
held in 1075 he abrogated by a peremptory 
decree the entire right of investiture by 
the temporal sovereign, and thus at once 
precipitated the breach with the emperor 
which continued during both their lives. 
He went further, and deduced from the 
power of the keys the inherent right of 
the pope to revise, and confirm or reject 
according to the merits of the case, the 
election of the emperor. Less dazzling 
at first sight, but more permanent and 
pregnant in its results, was the great in- 
ternal reform designed and effected by 
the dominant will of Hildebrand. There 
was in truth at bottom a close moral con- 
nection between the two. It was no new 
discovery of Gibbon's that, in his sense of 
the words, "the virtues of the clergy are 
more dangerous than their vices." The 
degradation of the papacy under the heel 
of a brutal and licentious aristocracy, and 
the general collapse of all spiritual life 
and power during the tenth century, had 
been rendered possible only by the wide- 
spread demoralization of prelates and 
clergy, who cared rather for the loaves 
and fishes, which civil potentates could 
offer or withhold, than for the Gospel they 
professed to preach. The crying evil of 
the age, against which all saints and re- 
formers were raising their voices, was the 
simony and incontinence of the priest- 
hood. Clerical marriage had long before 
been forbidden in the West, but it had 
not been declared invalid, and in fact was 
almost universal among the secular clergy ; 
and one inevitable result of this in the 
teudal age — as Milman, whose sympa- 
thies are all the other way, is careful to 
insist — was that Church benefices tended 
to become fiefs handed down from father 
to son, and thus the clergy were sinking 
— as is said to be often the case now in 
Russia — into an hereditary caste ; hence 
too the wide prevalence of simoniacal bar- 
gains. Here again, as in the conflict 
between Church and State, Gregory went 
to work with the directness and energy 
of a master genius ; he perceived at once 
that no half-measures could avail, and 
struck at the root of the evil by pronoun- 
cing all clerical marriages, not merely un- 
lawful but invalid, and — with a curious 
anticipation of modern democratic policy 



— appealing to the laity to assist him by 
refusing all ministrations of a married or 
simoniacal priest. 

Hildebrand has paid the accustomed 
penalty of greatness. An extravagant 
homage has been followed by a far more 
extravagant defamation. From the Refor- 
mation onwards it became the fashion 
among Protestants to load his memory 
with every term of obloquy and reproach, 
in which the compilers of the English 
** Homilies " set a somewhat conspicuous 
example, while even Roman Catholics 
seemed half ashamed to speak of him ; he 
was represented as a cruel and narrow- 
minded bigot, the typical Giant Pope of 
the " Pilgrim's Progress," whose teeth had 
not yet been drawn. A juster estimate 
has succeeded, and sceptical or Prot- 
estant writers in Germany and France 
were the first to make reparation for a 
great literary wrong. Guizot hailed him 
as the champion and pioneer of modern 
civilization. Sir James Stephen, who 
loved him little, could not refrain from 
testifying that ** his despotism, with what- 
ever inconsistency, sought to guide man- 
kind by moral impulses to a more than 
human sanctity, while the feudal despot- 
ism with which he waged war sought, 
with a stern consistency, to degrade them 
into beasts of prey, or beasts of burden. 
It was the conflict," he adds, **of mental 

with physical power, of literature with 
ignorance, of religion with debauchery," 
and Hildebrand, who "is celebrated as 
the reformer of the impure and profane 
abuses of his age, is yet more justly en- 
titled to the praise of having left the 
impress of his own gigantic character oo 
the history of all the ages which have suc- 
ceeded him." Milman, who had less than 
no sympathy with ecclesiastical preten- 
sions of any kind, names him ** the Caesar 
of spiritual conquest," before whose eyes 
floated in dim outline the beautiful vision 
of St. Augustine's »• City of God," which 
he aspired, however imperfectly, to make 
a reality on earth. It is but a shallow 
libel on his memory to call him the founder 
of Ultramontanism. That bastard scheme 
of a narrow and vicious centralization had 
its inception four centuries later in the 
startled recoil of a corrupt and craven 
Curia from the strong reforming spirit 
which found articulate but only temporary 
expression in the famous Council of Coo* 
stance, and was finally stereotyped by the 
ejection of the Teutonic element at the 
Reformation. But Hildebrand, who ex- 
pired at Salerno in exile, on May 25, 1085, 
may justly be styled the founder of the 
mediaeval papacy, and it must be alloired 
on all hands that the architect of so stately 
an edifice has well earned the honors of 
his eighth centenary. 

Chicory with Coffee. — The chicory root, 
which was used more with coffee when the lat- 
ter brought a higher price than it does now, 
but whicli is still greatly used on the Continent, 
somewhat resembles a parsnip. The stem 
rises to a height of two to three feet, the 
leaves round the base being toothed, not un- 
like thobe of the dandelion ; indeed, it is 
closely allied to that plant. The preparation 
of chicory, as carried out in Belgium, is very 
simple. The older white roots are selected, 
cleaned, sliced, and kiln-dried, and are then 
ready for the manufacturer. It is roasted in 
an iron cylinder, called a drum, which revolves 
over a coke furnace. When taken out it is of 
a dark brown color, and while hot it is soft and 
pliable, but after being raked out and sub- 
lected to a draught of cold air, it becomes 
hard and crisp, and is then ready for the mill. 
From the mill the powder is passed through a 
cylinder sieve, from which it emerges as fine 
as the finest tlour ; and the partially ground 
pieces, or foreign matters that may have found 
their way into the chicory, drop into a separate 
bin. The shades of color vary occasionally 
to suit the tistc of the purchaser. The chicory 
root is cultivated in Belgium, Holland, France, 

and Germany. In Belgium, where it is also 
used as a vegetable, it is very extensively 
grown, its culture and its manufacture (both 
of which are unrestricted) forming two of the 
greatest industries of that country ; and its in- 
fusion is largely drunk as an independent bev- 
erage. For home consumption it is put up in 
small round and square packets of various 
weights, with highly colored and attractive- 
looking labels attached, and so dis|>ensed to 
the public, who can also purchase it in a loose 
state. To preserve it in good condition, chicory 
should be kept in a tightly closed tin box and 
in a dry place ; otherwise it will become lumpy 
and rank, and unfit for use. Instead of being 
ground down to a fine powder chicory is some- 
times granulated ; that is to say, ground into 
grains or small lumps. This is often done 
when it is intended for export, as in this state 
it can be packed loosely in barrels, and is less 
likely to deteriorate. When exported in pow- 
der it is packed in tin cases, which are her- 
metically .soldered down to prevent injury from 
atmospheric changes. The LfOndon Groctf 
says that large quantities prepared in both 
ways are annually shipped from Belgium to all 
parts of the world. 


Fifth Series 
Volune LI 

: } 

No. 2144. -July 25, 1885. 

{From Beginningi 
Vol. OLXVI. 


I. The First Epoch in the Italian Re- 
naissance, London Qtiarterly Review^ . 

II. Schwartz : a History, .... English Illustrated Magazine^ 

II L Stuart Pretenders, Scottish Review^ . 

IV, A Passenger from Shanghai, , , . Belgravia^ . 

V. A Visit to the Temple of Heaven at 

Peking London Quarterly Review^ 

VI. A House Divided against Itself. By 

Mrs. Oliphant. Part XXV., , , '. Chambers* Journal, 

VII. Marmalade-Making, St. James's Gautie, 

VIIL The Franco-Chinese Treaty and British 

Trade, Economist, , 

IX. Afloat with a Florida Sponger, , . Field, .... 

X. The Civilization of Savages, . . , St. Jameses Gazette, 

XI. Nature in London, All Tht Year Round, . 

XII. Bee and Ant Phenomena, .... Chambers' Journal, 

XIIL The Matchmaker's Euclid, . . . Longman's Magcuune, . 








From the Romaic of Soutsos, . 

A oONNET, ..... 


194 1 Bed in Summer, 


Misckllany, 256 




For Eight Tyoi.^KJKs, remitted directly to the Pubiishers, the Living AcBwill be punctually forwarded 
Wavearjyrr^ o/i>ostare, 

Kemlttances snoulcl be made by bank dralt or check, or by post-office money-order, if poMible. If neither 
^these can be procured, the moneyshnuld he sent i n a registereid letter. All postmasters are obliged to register 
Jetterswhen requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the oraierol 


Single Numbers of Thb Living Agb, 18 cents. 




('O Kav)criaiaprfC') 

SouTSOS, if there is a creature whom I heartily 

'Tis the knave who blows his trumpet noisily 

from door to door. 
T'other day a blatant braggart — always at it, 
day and night — 
Sought to deafen me outright. 
Bygone grandeur, stale achievements, formed 
the staple of his story, 
Just as if I were a dunce 
And a baby, all at once, 
And had never heard of greatness, or of riches, 
or of glory ! 

He began to prate and prattle of the number 
of his cattle, 
Sheep and billygoats he counted, too, 
In an endless tittle-tattle ; 
Then he told me what the acres of his property 

amounted to. 
•* Will you sell it ? Name your figure ! " to the 
tool I nearly cried ; 
" I'm the greatest squire, d've know, 
Thebes or Negropont can snow ; " 
But I swallowed down my anger — bragging I 
can fiot abide. 

Every one admits of me, without a point unduly 

That I'm handsome, young, and fetching ; 
That my lips are coral red, my teeth like pearls 

whene'er I show *em — 
Every attitude a poem ; 
And that in the gay mazurka with angelic 

grace I glide. 
Ten fine girls for love of me have fall'n into a 

sad decline I 
But I don*t proclaim it on the housetops, like 

some friends of mine ; 
Boasting is my pet aversion, boasting I can 

noi abide. 

You*ve no notion of the numbers — Greeks 
and foreigners renowned — 

Who frequent my house on business, mom 
and evening, to and fro. 
Till my head spins round and round, 

As I watch them doff before me hats and tur- 
bans, louting low. 

Do you know that correspondence of a nature 
With ien Cabinets I hold ? 

That I am the confidant of every creature that 
I know — 

But I'd sooner bite my tongue o£f than tell 
anybody so. 

It's a most ill-starred anomaly by politics 
Genius n^vfr is rewarded. 

Men of most inferior metal in the Cabinet hold 
places ; 

While, in spite of all my talent, all my intel- 
lectual graces. 

I've not yet become the Premier — as I most 

one day, of course — 
But amid the Opposition benches bawl until 

I'm hoarse. 
Still, I'd sooner cut my hand ofif than attempt 

to calculate 
The incalculable services I've rendered to the 


I should be a noted person, and in human 
Hold a most exalted station. 
Were I not so mighty modest, — loth my deeds 

abroad to blazon ; 
But I can not blow my trumpet, — I could 
never be so brazen ! 
Praise me, then, dear Soutsos, do ! 
And I'll lay it thick on you. 
That the world may learn at last our real 

merits to appraise. 
And allow no shamefaced braggart to deprive 
us of our bays. 
Spectator. CHARLES L. GRAVES. 


As when some workers, toiling at a loom. 
Having but little portions of the roll 
Of some huge fabric, cannot see the whole, 
And note but atoms, wherein they entomb — 
As objects fade in evening's first gray gloom — 
The large design, from which each trifling dole 
But goes to make the long much-wished-for 

goal : 
So do we seek to penetrate the doom 
That lies so heavily upon our life. 
And strive to learn the whole that there must 

For each day has its own completed piece. 
The whole awaits us, where no anxious strife 
Can mar completeness : here but God's eyes 

What death shall show us when our life shall 

Chambers' Jouraal. 

J. E. Panton, 


In winter, I get up by night. 
And dress by yellow candle-light, 
In summer, quite the other way, 
I have to go to bed by day. 

I have to go to bed and see 
The birds still hopping on the tree. 
Or hear the grown-up people's feet 
Still going past me in the street. 

And does it not seem hard to you. 
When all the sky is clear and blue. 
And I should like so much to play, 
To have to go to bed by dav ? 

R. L. Stevenson. 



From The London Quarterly Review. 

We have come to speak in a succiDCt 
way of the Renaissance as an intellectual 
movement of transcendent importance in 
the history of modern civilization; of the 
literature of the Renaissance, the painting 
and sculpture of the Renaissance, the ar- 
chitecture of the Renaissance, as though 
the movement itself lay within limits so 
clearly defined as to allow of no sort of 
doubt in any given instance, whether the 
poet, artist, or thinker we are studying be- 
longs to the Renaissance or not. Yet, if 
we seriously attempt to give logical preci- 
sion to our use of the term, it is impossi- 
ble to avoid either so extending it as to 
make it embrace much of what is usually 
supposed to belong exclusively to the 
Middle Ages, or, on the other hand, con- 
fining it to the period during which the 
energies of the Italian mind were directed 
almost exclusively to the resuscitation of 
the antique in literature and art : a period 
extending, roughly speaking, from the 
latter end of the fourteenth century to the 
beginning of the sixteenth. If we adopt 
the latter alternative, we exclude, on the 
one hand, Dante, Petrarch, and Boccac- 
cio, on the other, Pulci, Boiardo, and 
Ariosto, from part or lot in the Renais- 
sance, the typical representatives of the 
movement, so far as literature is con- 
cerned, being Filelfo, Bembo, and Poli- 
tian. Properly speaking, however, the 
Renaissance is, as Vernon Lee observes, 
"not a period, but a condition," — a con- 

• I. Renaissance in Italy. By Jdhn Addington 
Symonds. Vols. I. and IV. London: Smith, Elder 
& Co. 1880 and 1881. 

a. Eupkorion: being Studies 0/ the Antique and 
tJu Medictval in the Renaissance. By Vbrnon Leb. 
London: T. Fisher Unwin. 1884. 

3. Le autiche Rime Volgari secondo la Lezione 
Codice vaticano 3793. Per cura di A. d' Axcona e 
D. CoMPARETTi. Vols. I. and II. Bologna: 1875 
and 1881. 

4. Otntilene e Ballate Strambotti e Madrigali nei 
SecoUXlU.e XIV. A cura di Giosub CAKOuca. 
Pisa: 1871. 

5. Poesie Italiane Inedite di Dugento Autori dalP 
origine delta lingua iufino all secolo ijmo. Raccolte 
ed illustrate da Francesco Tkucchi. Vol. I. Prato : 

6. Raccolta di Rime Antiche Toscane. Palermo: 


7. Poeti del Prima Secolo della Lingua Italiana. 

Firenze : 1816. 

dition ** which began to exist with the ear- 
liest mediaeval revival," which **did not 
exist all over Italy,*' and *' existed outside 
Italy," though " in Italy it was far more 
universal than elsewhere." In this larger 
and, as we think, more philosophical 
sense of the term, the Italian Renaissance 
may be said to have come into being as 
early as the twelfth century in the revival 
of the study of Roman law which then 
took place at Bologna. How the school of 
civil law founded there by Irnerius * in the 
first quarter of that century grew and flour- 
ished we know by the long list of eminent 
glossators or commentators on the Code 
and Digest of Justinian whose works are 
still extant; and the high repute in which 
the university was held in the following 
century is attested by the fact that in 1226 
the emperor Frederick II. attempted to 
suppress it, commanding the students to 
transfer themselves to his newly founded 
university at Naples. The Bolognese 
treated his edicts with contempt, and the 
university continued to prosper as before.f 
But while the severe study of the civil law 
was prosecuted at Bologna with an ardor 
which it is difHcult for a modern English- 
man to understand, the only literature 
which existed in the northern provinces of 
Italy was an exotic. During the latter 
half of the twelfth and the earlier decades 
of the thirteenth centuries troubadours 
from Provence visited Italy in large num- 
bers, enjoying the hospitality of the vari- 
ous feudal courts, and in return practising 
their art for the diversion of their hosts. 
Thus, at least in the north, the langued^oc 
came to be regarded by the Italians them- 
selves as the proper vehicle of poetry, and 
was exclusively used by those among them 
who first cultivated the art, such as Boni- 
facio Calvi of Genoa and Sordello of Man- 
tua ; so that, at the beginning of the thir- 
teenth century, the langue d^oc was in a 
fair way to establish itself as the literary 
language of Italy. The disengagement of 
the Italian mind from the Provencal in- 
fluence, the creation of a vernacular liter- 
ature, is the most signal achievement of 

* Hallam's Middle Ages, cap. ix. pt. ii. sub tit. 
" Civil Law." 

t Vun Savign/s Geach. des Rdmischen Rechts im 
Mittelalter, iii. 161. 



that century. The history of a revolution 
so momentous, not only for Italy, but for 
the whole Western world, is worth writ- 
ing with the utmost care and elaboration, 
and, as the movement was from first to 
last under the guidance of men learned in 
all the learning of their age, mindful of the 
ancient intellectual supremacy of their 
country, and bent upon restoring it, no 
account of the Italian Renaissance which 
does not deal with it in detail can fail to be 
unsatisfactory. The fault of Mr. Sy- 
monds's elaborate work is that he has 
never clearly settled with himself what he 
means by the Renaissance. On the one 
hand, he tells us that its golden age was 
inaugurated by Lorenzo dei Medici in the 
latter half of the fifteenth century, when 
Italian, which had been driven from the 
field a century before by the indifferent 
Latinity of the humanists, was reinstated 
as the literary language; on the other 
hand, he ranks Dante as a mediaeval poet. 
The Renaissance, according to Mr. Sy- 
monds, begins with Petrarch and ends 
with Ariosto. Its golden age is not the 
golden age of Italian literature — Ariosto 
is a poor substitute for Dante — but it is a 
reaction against the pedantic classicism of 
the humanists. It is not a revival of the 
antique, but a vindication of the claims of 
the modern as against the antique. This 
seems to us a paradoxical, not to say self- 
contradictory, position. If by the Renais- 
sance we mean the attempt to recover and 
appropriate the intellectual heritage left 
by Greece and Rome, then, properly 
speaking, the Renaissance was coeval 
with the earliest efforts of the Italian 
mind, and is not ended yet; while, if we 
mean by it the imitation of antique mod- 
els in literature, art, and life, it becomes 
synonymous with the combination of ped- 
antry and sensualism absurdly and bar- 
barously designated the humanistic move- 
ment ; a movement which consigned 
Dante and Petrarch to oblivion, and 
would have made Italian a dead language 
but for the reaction of the fifteenth and 
sixteenth centuries; a movement which 
prepared the way for the debasement of 
Italian painting by Giulio Romano, Cor- 
I'^^g^^o, and the Caracci, and in the case 
of the one art in which it had its way un- 

checked, the noble art of architectare, 
resulted in the cold and clumsy classicism 
of Palladio. Mr. Symonds does not adopt 
either of these alternatives ; his work is a 
kind of compromise between them. To 
Dante, out of a volume containing some 
five hundred odd pages, rather less tbaa 
twenty are assigned, and as at the close of 
them we are again reminded that Dante 
was after all a merely raedisval poet, and 
that with Petrarch the Renaissance bet* 
gins, we should be inclined to wonder why 
Mr. Symonds had noticed him at all were 
it not that we are already familiar with his 
peculiar mode of handling his subject. 
This is naturally seen to least advantage 
in his introductory chapter on "The Ori- 
gins." The manner in which the tbir^ 
teenth century is there treated seems to 
us singularly unsatisfactory. If we take 
the narrower view of the subject, the chap- 
ter is at once seen to be irrelevant, while 
as an introduction to the history of the 
Renaissance in the larger sense of the 
term it is altogether inadequate. 

We propose, accordingly, in the present 
paper to attempt, not indeed to write the 
history of Italian literature in that cen- 
tury, but to fill up a few lacuna in Mr. 
Symonds's account of it. We have said 
that the establishment of Italian as the 
literary language was the signal achieve- 
ment of the thirteenth century. Both 
Bologna and Florence exerted a powerful 
— the latter city a decisive — influence 
upon the movement. But the original im- 
petus came, not from the north, but from 
the south — from the school of poets 
which during the second quarter of the 
century formed itself in the Apulian and 
Sicilian dominions, and under the patron* 
age, of the emperor Frederick II. The 
influence which this brilliant and versatile 
prince, by race half Swabian, half Nor- 
man, by birth Italian, by culture cosmo- 
politan, exerted on the development of 
Italian literature was so important that it 
is necessary briefly to recapitulate some of 
the chief events of his life. The son of 
the emperor Henry VI., by Constance, 
daughter of Roger, the great count, he was 
born at Jesi, in the Marches of Ancona, 
December 26, 1194. Orphaned of both 
parents while yet in his fourth year, he 



was educated at Palermo, nomi Dally as 
the ward of the pope, but really under 
Moslem instructors, in all the learnino; of 
the East and West — Latin, French, Pro- 
vencal, Greek, and Arabian — developing 
under these influences ^n acuteness and 
subtlety of intellect, an energy and decis- 
ion of character, which made him even in 
his boyhood a potent force in the affairs 
of the world. In his sixteenth year he 
found himself called upon to defend Apu- 
lia, which, with Sicily, he had inherited 
from his mother, against an unprovoked at- 
tack by the newly crowned emperor Otho. 
He did so by inducing the pope to excom- 
municate the emperor, and the electors to 
depose him in favor of himself. This 
diversion recalled Otho to Germany, but 
in the autumn of 1212 Frederick, accom- 
panied merely by a small body guard, 
crossed the Alps to assert his title to the 
imperial crown. In JMovember he met 
Philip of France at Vaucouleurs, on the 
Meuse, and concluded a treaty of alliance 
with him, and in the following month he 
was crowned at Mayence. Two years 
later Otho sustained a crushing defeat at 
the hands of the French king at Bouvines. 
In 1 21 5 Frederick was crowned at Aix-la- 
Chapelle, when he pledged himself to lead 
the crusade which had just been pro- 
claimed by Innocent III. The death of 
Otho in 1218 rendered his position secure ; 
and in 1220 he returned to Italy to receive 
the imperial crown from the pope^s hands. 
The next eight years were spent in grap- 
pling with the chronic disorder which 
reigned in Apulia and Sicily, a revolt of 
the Saracen population of the island which 
broke out in 1222 being only crushed after 
a severe struggle. While thus engaged 
almost from day to day in a desperate 
conflict with anarchy, he yet found time 
to spare for the encouragement of litera- 
ture and science. He fostered the medi- 
cal school of Salerno, he founded the 
University of Naples, he encouraged the 
study of Aristotle, Michael Scott, better 
known as an astrologer, and honored by 
Dante with a place in the *' Inferno " (xx. 
115), being commissioned to execute a 
Latin translation of the Arabic versions 
of the Tlepi rjwxnc and the Ilep^ rci ^C>a* 

* Vun Rauiner, Geich. der Hohenstaufen (3rd ed.), 
iii. 3S6. 

Meanwhile, however, the vow which 
Frederick had taken at his coronation at 
Aix-la-Chapelle of necessity remained un- 
performed. In 1226 he solemnly renewed 
it, pledging himself, on pain of excom- 
munication, to set sail for the Holy Land 
in August of the following year. The 
death of Pope Honorius (March 18, 1227), 
and the election of Gregory IX. in his 
place, were fraught with momentous issues 
alike to Frederick, to the Church, and to 
Italy. Old enough to remember Freder- 
ick's grandfather, the great Barbarossa, 
Gregory seems to have made up his mind 
that the ancient theory of the two co-ordi- 
nate headships of the Christian world 
would no longer work ; that, if the Em- 
pire was not to reduce the Church to a 
subordinate position, the Church must 
become paramount. In particular, hje ap- 
pears to have regarded the presence of an 
emperor on Italian soil, and the steady 
consolidation of his power there, as a 
standing menace to the Church, and to 
have therefore determined to pick a quar- 
rel with Frederick at the very first oppor- 
tunity. Nor was the opportunity long in 
offering itself. In the summer of 1227 
Frederick duly set sail for the Holy Land, 
but, suddenly falling ill — his health was 
always rather weak, and the season was 
unusually sultry, so that the mortality 
amongst the troops had been excessive 
— he returned to Sicily after an absence 
of three days, the expedition, however, 
proceeding on its way. The pope treated 
the emperor as a malingerer, and promptly 
excommunicated him. 

Frederick, however, had not the slight- 
est intention of abandoning the crusade; 
for, though he cared nothing about the 
recovery of the Holy Sepulchre on its own 
account, he felt, as he expressed himself 
to Fakreddin, that it was necessary in 
order that he might "keep up his credit 
with the Franks." With a small squad- 
ron he sailed from Otranto in the spring 
of 1228, reached Acre in the autumn, and 
proceeded to occupy Jaffa. He had, how- 
ever, no desire to use force if diplomacy 
would serve the turn. Accordingly, after 
rendering Jaffa practically impregnable, 
he opened negotiations with Kameel, the 
sultan of Egypt, who was then in posses- 
sion of Jerusalem. Their intercourse was 



of the most friendly character on both 
sides. They discussed in Arabic, which 
Frederick spoke with ease, the mystical 
philosophy of the East. Frederick adopted 
the Saracen costume, and was charmed 
with a troupe of dancing-^irls which the 
sultan sent him. At length a treaty was 
concluded by which, in consideration of 
the surrender of the whole of Jerusalem, 
except the actual precincts of the Mosque 
of Omar, which occupied the site of the 
Temple, Frederick agreed to withdraw 
his forces, and henceforth to respect and 
maintain the integrity of the Moslem do- 
minions. The treaty was executed in 
February, 1229; a month later Frederick 
crowned himself (no priest venturing to 
perform the ceremony for him) King of 
Jerusalem. His return to Italy was has- 
tened by the news that the pope had 
invaded Apulia. A few months of Fred- 
erick's presence, however, sufficed to force 
the pope to withdraw his troops and con- 
clude a treaty of peace (June 14, 1230). 
Four years of peace followed, turned to 
splendid account by the emperor in ad- 
ministration, legislation, and the encour- 
agement of literature and science. A 
high court of justice was established, to 
which all inhabitants of the realm — Nor 
man and Saracen, Jew and Greek, alike 
— were amenable; and a code of laws 
was framed for its guidance which, if not 
quite the perfection of reason, seems at 
any rate to have approached nearer to that 
ideal than any other legal system that has 
existed between the downfall of the Ro- 
man Empire and our own comparatively 
enlightened era. 

It is not, however, with Frederick as a 
statesman that we are here specially con- 
cerned, but with the powerful stimulus 
which he gave to the development of the 
Italian mind. To his splendid Apulian 
court flocked poets and men of learning 
from every part of Italy. Frederick was 
himself a poet, as also were his illegiti- 
mate sons, Enzo and Manfred, and his 
chancellor, Piero delle Vigne. We have 
placed these writers in the forefront not 
so much on account of the merit of their 
work as because of the conspicuous posi- 
tions which they occupy in the history of 
their time. The extant poems which are 
attributed to Frederick are few in num- 
ber, and strike us as inferior in quality to 
those of most of his contemporaries. But 
before examining in detail the literature 
of this epoch it will be well to say some- 
thing concerning its general character- 

It must, then, be premised that Latin 

was exclusively employed by the learned 
men of Frederick's court, as generally 
throughout Italy, for all purposes of seri- 
ous prose composition. In that language 
the emperor wrote a treatise on falconry, 
and Michael Scott, at his command, ao 
elaborate work on astrology. 

The earliest prose writings in the Italiao 
language, such as the ** Cento Novelle,*' 
the '* Composizione del Mondo,'* the let- 
ters of Guittone d'Arezzo, and the trans- 
lation of Brunetto Latini*s ** Tesoro " 
(written in French), belong to the second 
half of the century. We propose to con- 
cern ourselves solely with the poets. It 
must further be observed that the poetry 
of the time is almost exclusively amorous.* 
That the Sicilian poets should have lim- 
ited themselves in this way is the more 
remarkable from the fact that the Proven- 
cal Troubadours, whom they largely imi- 
tated, by no means did so, much of the 
most characteristic poetry of the latter 
being political. The literature itself was 
without doubt inspired by the courtly and 
conventional poetry of Provence, though 
the ienzone attributed to Ciullo d'Alcamo, 
which from internal evidence appears to 
have been written at least as late as 1231, 
as has been ably shown by Professor 
d*Ancona, a spirited but unpleasant poem 
in which a man urges a love which he does 
not pretend to be honorable upon a womao 
apparently his superior in rank, and is 
answered by her for a time with scorn and 
indignation, but ultimately gets his way 
by sheer force of persistence, seems to 
argue the existence at an earlier date of a 
popular and probably indigenous species 
of amccbean love poetry. The dialogue is 
carried on in alternate stanzas of five lines 
apiece, of which the first three have seven 
accents and rhyme together, and the last 
two five accents and also rhyme together. 
The first stanza is a very good example 
of the verse. It is thus the lover salutes 
the lady : — 

Rosa fresca aulentissima c* apar* inver la state, 
l^ donne ti disiano pulzelle e maritate : 
Trami d' estc focora, se 1' este a bolontate. 
Per te non aio abento notte e dia 
Penzando pur di voi, madonna mi a. 

This poem exhibits in every way the 
most striking contrast to the style which 
was atfected by the knights, judges, and 
notaries who constitute what is known as 
the Sicilian, or perhaps we should say the 
Italo-Proven^al, school. It is not merely 
that these last entirely eschew the peculiar 

* See Dante's curious reroarlci on this iact (Visa 
Nuova, XXV.) 




metre 10 which the poem is written, using 
a structure of verse obviously modelled 
upon the chanson or chansonnette of the 
Provencal poets ; the ethical spirit of their 
work is totally different from the coarse 
and brutal cynicism which animates Ciul- 
lo's sprightly quintains. It may be, in- 
deed, that the passion of which they sang 
was no purer, but it is saturated with that 
peculiar chivalrous sentiment which, how- 
ever it may have been associated, as the 
author of ** Euphorion *' avers it was in 
the major jty of cases, with an irregular 
and indeed immoral relation between the 
lover and his mistress, is in itself one of 
the noblest characteristics of the Gothic 
spirit. The attitude of humility, of self- 
abasement, almost of worship, in which 
the French and Provencal Troubadours 
and the German Minnesingers alike ap- 
proach the ladies of their hearts' desire 
we note as belonging also to the Sicilian 
poets. The lover is the faithful vassal of 
his lady, her lowly servidore : and he 
sighs forth his soul in endfess importunate 
canEoni^ in which he extols her spiritual 
00 less than her physical qualities, her 
coHOScenza as well as her beltate^ bewails 
the misery her hardness of heart occasions 
him, but, though he hopes to have his re- 
ward (^uiderdone) at last, recognizes that 
his duty is to be patient and loyal in all 
events. Vernon Lee, who has both a 
taste and an undeniable aptitude for the- 
orizing, maintains that the peculiar tone 
which characterizes the bulk of the amor- 
ous |>oetry of the age of chivalry is due to 
the depraving influence of feudal society, 
the conditions of which hardly permitted 
of the existence of any romantic passion 
which was not at the same time both 
licentious and adulterous. She draws a 
dolorous picture of life in a feudal castle, 
the garrison composed of young knights, 
squires, and pages, almost as rigidly ex- 
cluded from female society as if they had 
been so many monks, yet having con- 
stantly before their eyes a type of high- 
bred grace and beauty in the young chAte* 
laine^ married for political or family rea- 
sons to a man many years older than her- 
self, and whose acquaintance she had 
hardly made before her betrothal. Under 
conditions so unnatural, the moral sense 
(she argues) became altogether perverted, 
adultery coming to be recognized as a 
thing of course, and fidelity to the para- 
mour taking the place of fidelity to the 
husband, the courts of love on the one 
hand affirming *'amorem non posse inter 
duos jugaies suas extendere vires," and 
OQ the other ** solemnly banishing from 

society any woman who Is known to have 
more than one lover." There is much 
plausibility in this theory, and its author 
is enabled, by her extensive and intimate 
acquaintance with mediaeval literature, to 
adduce an imposing mass of evidence in 
its support. 

Even, however, supposing it to be true 
as regards France and Germany, it must 
be observed that we have no evidence that 
similar conditions existed in Italy and 
Sicily. The hold of feudalism on the pe- 
ninsula was always slight, and, though it 
probably took stronger root in Sicily, we 
have no means of judging of the condition 
of sentiment in the island as regards adul- 
terous amours during the twelfth century, 
while in the thirteenth, society there, as 
in continental Italy, was in a process of 
swift transformation in the direction of 
democracy. There is indeed extant a 
canzone containing a very frank apology 
for treachery and adultery, written in the 
Sicilian dialect, and ascribed by Trucchi 
and Professor d* Ancona to one " Re Gio- 
vanni." Who this King John may have 
been is not clear, but if he was, as Trucchi 
conjectures, the Count of Brienne and 
King of Jerusalem, whose daughter Yo- 
lande Frederick married shortly before 
setting out on his crusade, the poem in 
all probability was written either in the 
twelfth or early in the thirteenth century. 

If, however, this poem is rightly ascribed 
to King John, it cannot be accepted as 
evidence of Italian sentiment on the mat- 
ter; if it is by another and Italian hand, 
it must be regarded in common with the 
rest of the poetry of the period as repre- 
senting a literary mode imported from 
abroad by a society which was rapidly 
losing its feudal character, but which was 
as yet unable to fashion for itself a really 
original literature. Provencal literature 
had already become conventionalized in 
the thirteenth century even in its native 
land, and it did not lose in conventionality 
by being transplanted to Italian soil. Ex- 
cept in a very few instances it is at first 
difficult to believe that the canzoni of the 
early Sicilian poets were addressed to 
individual ladies at all, and Piero delle 
Vigne's sonnet on Love makes one much 
inclined to doubt whether that learned 
jurist had ever experienced the tender 
passion. After mentioning tliat some 
people doubt the existence of the god of 
love, he explains that he is of the contrary 
opinion; because, though the god is in- 
visible, yet he reveals himself in his 
works, as the virtue of the magnet is dis- 
played in its attracting iron to itself. 



Nothing can beimagined more frigid than 
Ihis the earliest extant sonnet, yel we find 
ihe same writer addressing his mistress 
in terms which, in spite of a certain affec- 
tation and conventionality, have yet the 
ring of sincerity to them. 

The history of this remarkable man is 
by no means lacking in a ceriaio romaolic 
interest — the interest that is excited by 
sudden and brilliant success followed by 
ruin no less unexpected and complete — 
but we know next to nothing of his pri- 
vate liie* Born at Capua in the last 
decade of the twelfth century, he appears 
to have studied law at Bologna with great 
distinction. Having returned to his na- 
tive town about 1221, he was presented to 
the emperor at Naples, and entered the 
imperial service as notary. He was sub- 
sequeotly raised to llie bench, and played 
the part of Tribonian to Frederick's Jus- 
tinian in the compilation of the Code to 
which reference has already been made, 
and which was published in 1231. He 
was subsequently (1234) sent to England 
to negotiate a marriage between Freder- 
ick, whose wiFe Yolande had died in I2ZS, 
and Isabella, sister of Henry III. He 
reached London in 1235, and left in May, 
escorting the princess to Worms, where 
the marriage was celebrated with great 
state in July. Frederick had been sum- 
moned to Germany in the preceding year 
by the outbreak of a revolt raised by his 
son Henry al the insiigation ui the Guelf 
republics of Lombardy, Henry was ar- 
rested shortly before the emperor's mar- 
riage, and condemned to perpetual impris- 
onment in a Calabrian dungeon. 

War with the Lombard cities followed, 
which, gradually growing into a struggle 
i oulrnHce with the pope, who declared in 
their favor, and excommunicated the em- 
peror in 1239, taxed Frederick's energies 
to the utmost for the remainder of his lite, 
and hurled Piero delle Vigne, from the 
high position which he held as Frederick's 
most trusted confidant and councillor, 
into the ignominy of a traitor's prison. 
whence he found escape only by suicide. 
In IZ49 suspiciort of treachery felt upon 
him — whether welt or ill founded remains 
to this day a matter of controversy. Frtd 
erick, however, was convinced ot his guilt, 
and, as his habit was. look a ruihle-ts 
vengeance. The chancellor's eyes were 
put out, and, seated on an ass, he was 
paraded through the streets ot Pisa, and 
then thrown into prison. There, being 

determined to end his days, and haviog 
00 weapon suitable for the purpose, he 
took a course which reveals Ihe uofaltcf- 
ing resolution of his character ; he aniote 
his head agaiust the stone work of bla 
dungeon until the skull was f ractured, aod 
so died. Dante has placed oo record his 
conviction of his innocence, and refers 
his disgrace to Ihe machinations of his 

Frederick did not long survive his 
chancellor. He died of a fever, occasioned 
by agitation of mind and excessive exer- 
tion, on December 13, 1250, at Fireniuola, 
in the neighborhood of the Abru»i, thus 
fuelling as nearly as could be reasonablj 
eqpected the prophecy of ao astrologer 
which had fixed Florence (Firenie) as tbe 
place of his death. 

As regards Frederick's character, the 
judgment of a contemporary chronicler, 
Fra Salimbene, may probably {due allow- 
ance being made tor the strong GueI6c 
and clerical prejudices of the writer) bs 
accepted as fairly truthful. 

He had [he says] no fattb in God ; wis as- 
tute, subtle, greedy, luxurious, choleric, mali- 

i yet 

e the 

show of ^raciuusness and courtesy. He coutd 
read, writt, !iin^, make canaini MiA caHwaultt, 
and was handaome and well proportioned, 
though only of middle height. ... He alu> 
spoke many languages ; and. in short, if he liad 
lieen a go'id Lalhulic and well disposed to 
God and the Church, he would have had few 
equjis in the world. But as it it written thai 
a little ferment is enough to corrupt a great 
mass, so all his virtue was eclipsed by hii per> 
secution of the Church ; and he would not 
have persecuiEd the Church had he loved Cod 
and desired to secure the salvation of his lOoL 
Matthew Paris doubtless expresses the 
sentiment of universal Christendom when 
he emphatically designates the emperor 
"stupor muodi et immutator mirabilis."t 
The atheism with which Frederick was 
credited by his contemporaries probably 
had no existence in fact, but there is little 
reason to suppose that he possessed any 
diiitinctively Christian faith. His tolerir 
tion of the Jews and the Saracens, bis 
employment of the latter io his wars with 
the pope, to say nothing of the variOBS 
profane jests which are attiib.iled to him, 
seem to evince acerlain laxity of religiims 
belief, while the energetic measures which 
he took to suppress schism withiD the 
Komish Church were probably dictated 
by political considerations. 

• Inf. liii. 6,-75. 



Of Frederick's verse little is extant, 
and that little, as has already been re- 
marked, is disappointing. The sceptical 
criticism of our time has cast doubts upon 
the authenticity of most of the few poems 
that have heen attributed to him. Both 
the tenzone beginning ** Dolze meo drudo 
e vattene," published in the first volume 
of D'Ancona and Comparetti*s edition of 
the "Libro Reale" (Vat. MS. 3793), and 
the canzone published by Carducci (** Di 
dol mi convien can tare ") in his **Canti- 
lene e Ballate Strambotti e Madrigali nei 
Secoli XIII e XIV," present a marked 
contrast in point of style to the undoubt- 
edly genuine productions of the Sicilian 
court-poets. Both have the directness 
and simplicity which characterize Ciullo 
d^Alcamo, Kuggieri Pugliese, and Ciacco 
dell' Anquiliara, whose work the first- 
mentioned poem also resembles in being 
of an amoebean character. Four other 
poems ascribed to Frederick will be found 
in Valeriani's collection, •• Poeti del Primo 
Secolo." Thev have little or no merit. 

The same year that was so disastrous 
to Piero delle Vigne saw Frederick's nat- 
ural son, the gallant Enzo, king of Sar- 
dinia, a prisoner at Bologna. Taken in a 
skirmish before the walls of the city, he 
was barbarously sentenced to imprison- 
ment for life. AH offers of ransom were 
rejected, and various plans of escape, con- 
trived, it is said, by Lucia Biadagioli, a 
young Bolognese lady, whose heart was 
touched with pity for the beautiful and 
brilliant captive, were frustrated by the 
vigilance of the gaolers. Enzo, after lan- 
guishing in prison for twenty-three years, 
died of a broken heart in 1272, the city 
which had used him so shamefully during 
his life honoring his remains with a mag- 
nificent funeral. 

Three canzonets and a sonnet are ranked 
under the name of Enzo in Valeriani's 
collection. The sonnet has been trans- 
lated by Rossetti in his ^'Dante and his 
Circle." It is a variation upon the theme 
of the preacher, "To everything there is 
a season, and a time to every purpose 
under heaven," and is interesting as show- 
ing how early the capabilities of the son- 
net as a vehicle of sententious moralizing 
were recognized. As a work of art it is 
not of a high order. The canzonets, on 
the other hand, are written in a graceful 
and almost natural style — a refreshing 
contrast to that of the emperor. 

One of them, however, is now assigned 
by D'Ancona, on the authority of the Vat- 
ican MS. 3793, to Sir Nascimbene da 

Bologna. To a crowd of rhymers of less 
social distinction fortune has been less 
unkind; for, as we have no biographical 
knowledge of any of them, it is hardly 
worth the while even of a German Dryas- 
dust to dispute the authenticity of the 
work which passes under their names, of 
which there is a considerable mass. It 
must be owned that on the whole these 
poems are apt to be rather tedious reading, 
owing to the iteration of almost identical 
sentiments, images, and modes of expres- 
sion which characterizes them ; neverthe* 
less, Rinaldo d' Aquino's lament of a love- 
lorn maiden, which from internal evidence 
would seem to have been written about 
the time of Frederick's expedition to the 
Holy Land, and the canzone by Odo delle 
Colonne, in which a lady half indignantly, 
half plaintively, reproaches her absent 
lover with neglect, are written with un- 
deniable grace and a certain (very superfi- 
cial) pathos. 

Rugierone de Palermo's lament of a 
Crusader who has left his lady behind 
him, and who remembers in Syria her 
** dolze compagnia" and ** dolze segna- 
mento," is really touching in its simple 
naturalness of sentiment. And when the 
stern reality of death abruptly challeng:es 
the attention of that lightly dallying, idle 
knight, Giacomino Pugliesi da Prato, the 
naive sincerity of his almost childlike grief 
finds expression in language which goes 
straight to the heart. 

Solea aver sollazzo e gioco e riso 

Pill che nuir altro Cavalier che sia. 

Or n' h gita Madonna in Paradise ; 

Portonne la dolce speranza mia. 

Lasci6 me in pene e con sospiri e pianti, 

Levommi gioco e canti, 

E dolce compagnia, 

Ch* io m' avea degli amanti. 

Or non la veggio, n^ le sto davanti, 

E non mi mostra li dolci sembianti, 

Che solla. 

The most prolific writer of this period 
appears to have been Giacomo da Lenti- 
no ; at any rate, more work of his than of 
any of his contemporaries has been pre- 
served. He wrote both sonnets and can^ 
zonU and is recognized by Dante (De 
Vulg. Eloq. i. cap. xii.) as having exer- 
cised a refining and ennobling influence 
on Italian style. From the point of view 
of mere diction, with which in that trea- 
tise Dante was exclusively concerned, the 
praise is probably deserved ; but as a poet 
his merits are by no means extraordinary. 
His imaginative faculty moves within the 
narrowest limits, a few figures, such as the 



basilisk, the phoenix, the salamander, 
comprisint; almost the whole of his availa- 
ble stock in trade; and when he essays a 
f1i(;ht beyond, he is apt to fall into some 
peculiarly fri^^id conceit, as when he com- 
pares himself to a ship, his lady to the 
tempestuous ocean, and his sighs and 
melodious wailino^s to the jettison by 
which the ship is lightened, or elaborating 
the commonplace by which the lady is 
said to hold her lover or his heart in balia 
(a hardly translatable expression), insists 
in the most absurdly explicit way that his 
heart is no longer in his body, but in the 
custody of his lady, just as though that 
important part of his anatomy might be 
seen any day on her premises by any lady 
or gentleman that might choose to pay a 
visit to Lentino. So also in one of his 
sonnets he does his best to exhaust the 
catalogue of precious stones known to the 
lapidary, in order to exalt Madonna's 
virtues above theirs, and in another 
gravely propounds the question — 

Or come puote si gran donna entrare 
Per gli occhi miei, che si piccioli sone? 
E nel mio core come puote entrare, 
Che mcntresso la porto ovunque vone? 

It was doubtless this vicious manner of 
writin*^, at once frigid and extravagant, 
that induced Dante to class him with 
Guittone d'Arezzo and Buonaggiunta Ur- 
biciani da Lucca (Purg. xxiv. 56), as one 
of those who sought to eke out their 
poverty of imagination by inappropriate 
embellishment. Vernon Lee discovers in 
him a tendency to Platonism. Platonic 
love is an expression to which it is very 
difficult to attach a definite signification ; 
but we own we are at a loss to understand 
in what sense the term can be used in con- 
nection with (jiacomo da Lentino. If 
Platonic love implies indifference to sen- 
sual pleasure, we fail to see any trace of 
such a disposition in the notary. We sus- 
pect that Vernon Lee has been misled by 
the frigidity of the man's style into creel 
iting him with a corresponding quality of 
sentiment which probably did not belong 
to him. 

The vices of the notary's style are, how- 
ever, by no means peculiar to him. In a 
greater or less degree they are character- 
istic of the majority of his contemporaries. 
To say a thing naturally would seem to 
have been thought by them beneath the 
dignity of poetry ; their range of ideas is 
limited in the extreme, and too often 
when in reading them we have chanced 
upon something which is ima^rinative and 
seems original, we are disappointed to 

learn from Nannucci* or Gaspary f that 
it has been said before by some Proveo* 
9al troubadour. At the same time,, it is 
easy to underrate the originality of the 
Sicilian poetry. On a cursory survey we 
might be inclined to exclaim contemptu* 
ously, ** An echo of Proven9al poetry ia 
its decadence 1 " When, however, the 
debt which they owed to the Provencals 
has been recognized to the full, when evea 
the diligence of Adolf Gaspary has ex- 
hausted itself in tracing back their happi- 
est ideas to Provencal sources, it remains 
that the Sicilians have after all an origi- 
nality of their own. Not only were they 
the first to write Italian, but they invented 
and carried far on the way to perfection 
one metrical form which seems destined 
to last as long as human speech itself — 
viz., the sonnet ; another, the canzone, 
which Dante did not disdain to use; a 
third, the strambotto, a stanza of eight 
iambic five-accented lines, which, with 
certain modifications in the arrangement 
of the rhymes, became, in the hands of 
Pulci, Boiardo, and Ariosto, the peculiar 
vehicle of narrative, and suggested to 
Spenser the noble stanza which bears bis 

Dante (De Vulg. Eloq. i. cap. xii.) fully 
acknowledges the importance of the part 
played by the Sicilians in the development 
of Italian poetry, observing that, so pow- 
erful was the influence exerted by thenii 
even in his own day, **quicquid poetan- 
tur I tali Sicilianuro vocatur," which seems 
to imply that it was the custom to use 
some such expression as ** uno Ciciliano^" 
as a generic term for a poem, whether 
written in the Sicilian dialect or not. At 
what rate the movement began to spread 
northward cannot be decided with pre- 
cision, nor the route which it traversed. 
The older Italian critics fixed the date of 
a canzone by a Sienese poet, Kolcachiero 
de' Folcachieri, about the year 1 177, on 
the strength of its first line, ** Tutto Ko 
mondo vive sanza guerra," which was 
supposed to refer to the peace concluded 
in that year between Barbarossa and Pope 
Alexander III. As, however, we no* 
know that the canzone was invented by 
the Sicilians, and not earlier than the 
second quarter of the thirteenth centiiry« 
some other period of general peace roust 
be sought, if we still suppose the line to 
contain a reference to historical fact. A 
similar expression occurs in a poem by 
Rinaldo d* Aquino, already referred to. 

* Manuale della L«tteratura del primo aecolo ddb 
Lingua Ii.iliana. Fireuze. 1874. 
t Die bicilianische Dicterachule. Berlin. 187S. 


The lady, whose lover has taken the cross, 
complains : — 

Lo 'mpcrador con pace 


a face 

Che m'a tolta la mia spene. 
This latter poem we are iDclined to 
refer ro i2zS, when Frederick was on the 
eve oi sailing ior the HoJy Laad. Folca- 
chiero's canzone was probably written 
some years later — i.e., at some date be- 
tween Ihe conclusion of the treaty of 
peace with the pope in 1230, and the out- [ 
break of the war with the Lombard League 
in 1335- Bologna seems lo have been one 
of the tirsl of ihc cities of the north to 
respond to the Sicilian influence. Besides 
Nascimbcne, already nenlioned as the 
author of a canzone erroneously ascribed 
to Enio, wc know of four other poets be- 
longing 10 this town who wrote during 
the first half of the thirteenth century — 
Semprebene, Fabriiio, Guido rbialieri, 
and Guido Gumicelll. Of the three for- 

The last ment